


Fix You

by brazenlyunabashedlyshamelessly



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alzheimer's Disease, Child Neglect, Depression, Homophobia, M/M, Mentions of Death, Minor Violence, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Racist Language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-01
Updated: 2016-08-17
Packaged: 2018-06-05 18:32:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 40,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6716365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brazenlyunabashedlyshamelessly/pseuds/brazenlyunabashedlyshamelessly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Life's not fair. Get used to it."</p>
<p>Wise words dispensed to Steve Rogers by his first foster dad. And still, somehow, Steve still manages to get caught off guard when things go to shit.</p>
<p>"Don't you have any friends?"</p>
<p>A question asked by the guy who's been like a father to Bucky Barnes. The answer is no, not really. Because then he'd have to explain why he's got a huge friggin' hunk of metal masquerading as his arm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Is it too soon for me to be posting a new multichap? I think it might be, but whatever, I'm pretty excited for this one. Kudos and comments are more than welcome from all you awesome people!
> 
> Also, please DO NOT HESITATE to let me know if there are any triggers that I should add to my tags. I'm not too great at that, so I would really, really appreciate you guys letting me know. 
> 
> Also also, I don't know very much about heart disease. It's been me and good ol' Google. So if I muck up with symptoms/treatments, that's entirely my fault.

_ Life’s not fair. Get used to it.  _

That's what Steve Rogers’ first foster dad had told him. After the well meaning but ultimately powerless social worker had left, Alexander Pierce had sat him down and delivered some hard truths. One, Steve was in his house for one reason and one reason only: that was for the welfare cheque. Next, no one gave two shits about some sickly orphan; that went double for Pierce. Thirdly, stay out of the way. And then, the none too gentle reminder:  _ “Life’s not fair, boy. Get used to it.” _

It hadn't taken long for Steve to get the message. Going to school meant hiding the fact that he didn't have lunch; coming home meant avoiding Pierce as much as possible. There were no friends, there was no family. Just him and the backs of his second hand textbooks and stubby pencils. Drawing was nice, comforting. 

Steve got used to the way things were. 

Maybe a little too used to it. Because after more than a month of fever and aching joints and shortness of breath that he hadn't mentioned to anyone, Steve had collapsed at school. He'd become one of those rare cases of rheumatic fever. 

Good thing about getting sick? His social worker had bought him a teddy bear. 

Better than the bear? Knowing that for the next while, he'd be getting regular meals. 

But the best thing? The  _ very _ best? No more Pierce. A young nurse--Maria Hill, Steve thought her name was--had taken one look at Steve, and cried neglect. She'd reported his case to family services, and threatened to make one hell of a noise about it. 

He'd gotten placed in another home, far away from Pierce. The man who'd taken him in was tall and broad shouldered and serious. Colonel Nick J. Fury was a military man who apparently had a soft spot for orphaned waifs. Steve hadn’t been the first kid that Fury had taken in; as it turned out, he’d rescued a little redheaded girl named Natasha.

The prospect of being that close to another kid had made Steve nervous. Even more than he already was about being sent to a new home. 

Fury had gone to great pains to reassure Steve. Hindsight being what it is, he knows now how lucky he was to have landed up with Nick. While Pierce had been a negligent asshole, Steve knew other kids who’d put up with much worse.

“ _ You're safe here, _ ” Nick had told Steve the morning he'd come to pick him up from the hospital. His voice had been deep and rumbly, gaze steady. 

“ _ I don’t believe you, _ ” Steve had whispered.

_ “But you will. _ ”

He had, but it had taken Steve a long time to get to that point.

But like Pierce had told Steve all those years ago, life isn’t fair. And the good stuff didn’t come for free. 

And even though Steve knows that, he fucking  _ knows _ , when the bill comes, it still knocks the breath right out of him.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

One thing Steve has learned about Doctor Bruce Banner is that he’s a fidgeter. It doesn’t matter what the situation is, good news or bad, the doctor couldn’t do anything without fiddling with his glasses, the papers on his desk, his goddamn  _ shoelaces _ if he got desperate. 

It makes the guy surprisingly hard to read.

Rather than press the issue and make the poor guy even more nervous, Steve just leans back in his seat; Banner is messing around with his computer screen, angling it this way and that. Finally, his hands still. Banner takes a deep breath before looking at Steve.

Okay, this can’t be good.

“What?” Steve demands. “C’mon, Doc, you’re killin’ me here.”

Banner winces.

“I’m not entirely sure how to say this,” he begins uncertainly. 

“Well, opening your mouth would be a good start,” Steve mutters.

“Your heart… It’s…”

“Fucked? We know that already.” His blunt words have Banner floundering worse now, and Steve feels a twinge of guilt. While it’s true that Steve’s heart has always given him problems, it’s not fair to be a dick to his doctor about it, especially given all Banner’s done for him. Both his Ma, and Nick, would tear him a new one for speaking to a doctor like that. 

“Sorry. I’ll stop. You were tellin’ me about my heart.”

The relief on Banner’s face is short lived. He goes back to fidgeting, rapping his knuckles lightly on the polished wood of his desk.

“Well, I ran those tests we spoke about the last time you were here. You told me you were feeling, uh... “ Banner pauses to check his notes. “Weak, tired, and you mentioned that you had blood in your urine.”  

“Yeah…”

“And I found that pretty concerning, so I--”

“Look, Doc, can you just… spit it out? Please?”

Banner actually gets up from his desk to pace. When he speaks, his words are quick and clipped. 

“There are complications with your RHD. Turns out, you’ve contracted infective endocarditis. It’s severe… more severe than I thought.”

Silence for the space of a few of Steve’s stuttering heartbeats. He’s familiar with some of the medical terminology Banner was throwing around; after years of struggling with a bum ticker from the time he was a kid, how could he not. And while Steve normally insists on being clued up on his condition, this time he finds himself wishing he could have a few more seconds of ignorance.

Scarlet fever was rare in the US, since antibiotics tended to be easily available to prevent it. But Pierce hadn’t given a rat’s ass about Steve beyond the welfare cheques that were attached to him, and so he hadn’t noticed that Steve was sick. And because Steve knew better than to gain any unwanted attention, neither had his teachers.

By the time Steve had received treatment, the damage had already been done. A few years later, he’d been diagnosed with rheumatic heart disease. Every day for almost twenty years, Steve had been prescribed different meds, all in the hopes of preventing the endocarditis from setting in.

All for nothing.

“Huh.” It’s all he can think to say. 

Judging by the bemused expression on Banner’s face, that isn’t the appropriate response. 

“Look, Steve, I know that this is… a lot. Especially with how much you’ve already gone through. If you want, I can find someone for you to talk--”

“No. I’m fine. It’s fine. Just--” Steve drew in a deep breath. “Tell me what else you found. The endocarditis, what’s it--what’s it doing?”

Banner talked a lot after that, but Steve couldn’t stop his mind from wandering. 

Maybe he should be more upset. Banner clearly thinks so. In between explanations of what these new complications are going to mean for Steve in the short and medium term, the doctor offers to give Steve the numbers of several psychologists he knows. 

He accepts the little scrap of paper with their contact details, just to shut Banner up.

Finally, the appointment comes to an end. Banner writes him a new prescription, and they schedule some follow up tests. It’s a relief when they both get up to move to the door.

“Wait, Steve, hold on,” Banner says as he’s about to leave. He rests a heavy hand on Steve’s shoulder, bring him to a halt. Steve looks up at him questioningly.

“It’ll be okay,” Banner assures him. “There are options. I just want you to know that.”

“Thanks, doc. ‘Preciate it,” Steve says, forcing a smile. 

And then, with one last last handshake, he’s out the door.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

“ _ Shit! _ ” Steve yelps. “Jesus, Nat, what the hell?”

No apology--because of course not--merely an amused smirk and the arch of a perfectly shaped eyebrow.

“I have a heart condition,” Steve reminds her without thinking; he then has to hide his wince at bringing it up.

_ Dumbass.  _

“What’s your point?” Natasha asks, sauntering into his office without invitation. She’s dressed in her usual office chic and sky high heels, not a hair out of place. It’s hard, sometimes, to reconcile the no nonsense business woman with the wide eyed little girl he’d grown up with. 

He’s so proud of her. 

But since no self-respecting little brother would ever actually admit that, Steve settles on pulling a face at her.

“My point is that you could kill me. And then what’d Nick say?”

“That’s mighty damn inconvenient?” Nat suggests with a grin. They both snicker at the mental image of Nick’s long suffering expression whenever they started ribbing each other.

Taking a seat at Steve’s desk, Nat slouches down and stares at him expectantly. It reminds him of the nights they used to sneak into each other’s rooms to talk about friends, laugh about their crushes, complain about Nick.

“What?” Steve asks defensively when Nat allows the silence to stretch. 

“Stupid isn’t your colour, Steven. What did the doctor say?”

“How d’you even know about that? Did you go through my day planner?”

“Please, the only time you ever leave this place is to see your cardiologist. I’d think you were dating him if you didn’t always come back looking so miserable.”

“You’re hilarious.”

“You’re deflecting.”

“God, you’re as bad as Nick. All you friggin’ lawyers are the same,” Steve complains.

To be fair to Nick, he isn’t  _ just  _ a lawyer. He is  _ the _ lawyer, defender of politicians, celebrities and Wall Street rats. Fury & Stark was one of the biggest law firms in New York, and both Steve and Nat had found themselves roped in to the family business. While Natasha had gone to law school, Steve had gotten a degree in human resources management. 

And to be fair to Nat, despite her sometimes… less than friendly demeanor, she isn’t half as cutthroat as their foster father can sometimes be. The poker face that she’s usually so good at maintaining has dropped, and Steve can see the open concern in her eyes.

“Steve.” Leaning forward in her seat, Natasha pins him with a serious look. “Please. Tell me what's going on.”

Just like that, resistance crumbles. Slowly, Steve took a seat behind his desk. Trying desperately to think of a way to tell Natasha what’s going on without worrying her, he rubs tiredly at his forehead. 

_ It’s freezing in here _ , he realises distantly. The reason could be the air conditioning, but it’s just as likely to be his shitty circulation making his fingers feel like ice.

“We did some tests. The Doc, he, uh… he thinks my heart may’ve gotten worse.”

“Worse how?” Natasha asks sharply.

“There’s been some kinda damage to, uh, to the valves. Something called endocarditis. That’s why I’ve been feelin’ off lately.”

Nat’s quiet for a few seconds. She’s slipped back into that carefully neutral expression, but her fingers are twisting together anxiously.

“Have you told Nick?”

Suppressing a sigh, Steve turns to the small kettle he keeps on his desk, set safely away from his computer. Despite everyone at Fury & Stark’s belief that Nick Fury is supreme ruler of the universe, Nick can’t exactly  _ order _ Steve’s heart to work.   


“D’you want some coffee?” he asks quietly.

“Why haven’t you told him?”

“Jesus, Nat, I only just found out.”

“Bullshit,” she snaps. Steve blinks in surprise at the vehemence in her voice. “You’ve known something was wrong for a while, you had tests done.” It sounds like an accusation, and he feels a pang of guilt.

“I didn’t want you to worry.”

That’s not what Natasha wants to hear. A little huff of disgust escapes her throat as she pushes up from her chair. 

“Didn’t know we were keeping secrets from each other,” she says tightly. Smoothing at imaginary wrinkles in her pencil skirt, Natasha heads for the door without waiting for an answer. 

“Wait, Nat, just--” He lets out a frustrated breath as she looks back at him. “I don’t wanna fight.”

“Neither do I.” Natasha hesitates just in front of his office door, arms crossed tightly across her chest. A sudden swell of affection hits Steve in that moment. He can remember her adopting that same pose after one of their many shouting matches over the years, not wanting to be the first to apologise, but hating for them to be on the outs.

“Look, I… I probably should’ve told you about the tests--”

“Probably?”

“-- _ but  _ I didn’t want you or Nick to worry if it turned out to be nothing.”

Nat rolls her eyes, but Steve knows her too well to think she’s still pissed. 

“Do we hug it out now?” he asks earnestly, trying to keep his lips from twitching.

“Jackass,” Natasha mutters. “I have to get back to work, but you’re gonna give me  _ all  _ the medical terminology later, and we’re gonna google the hell out of whatever this epicab--”

“Endocarditis,” Steve corrects.

“Whatever,” she says, again reminding him of a sullen teenager. “We’ll google it, and come up with a plan to get you fixed up.”

“Thanks, sis.”

“Uh-huh. Just remember that when my intern comes in here crying about me being a heinous bitch.”

“You made him cry again?” Steve asks, aghast. 

“Tears are weakness leaving the body. Or something like that. Talk to you later.”

Striding out of his office, Natasha parts with a cheery wave. Steve can’t help but grin after her retreating figure. He walks back over to his desk to make himself a cup of green tea. It doesn’t matter how long he’s been chugging the stuff, it still makes him shudder.

“Oh, the joys of chronic heart disease,” he mutters to himself. 

And it’s just bound to get worse.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Mister Papadopoulos, it’s time for your dinner.”

“Who tha fuck’re you? What’re ya doin’ in my house?”

_ Shit. And today was going so well too. _

“It’s James Barnes, Mister Papadopoulos. I’m your nurse.”

Shuffling forward in nothing more than his underwear and a pair of socks, Mr Papadopoulos squints at Bucky in confusion. This isn’t the first time they’ve had this conversation, and Bucky doubts it’ll be the last. So, resigning himself to the inevitable, he casts his gaze around in search of the old man’s pants. 

“You can’t be a nurse,” Mr Papadopoulos wheezes. “Only girls are nurses.”

“Whole new world, Papa,” Bucky told him, deliberately using a nickname Mr Papadopoulos  _ hated _ . “Men work as nurses and interior designers; women become CEOs and astronauts.”

“That’s ‘cause our president’s a goddamn communist,” Mr Papadopoulos grumbles. He doesn’t seem too concerned over Bucky’s identity, so maybe they can avoid a phone call the police department.

Bucky shudders at the memory of what happened last time.

“I thought he was a Muslim,” Bucky says mildly. Spotting the old man’s pants, he goes to get them while Mr Papadopoulos continues to ramble. 

“He’s a-a-a Muslim communist! A dirty--” 

“Y’know, I heard communists walk around without their pants on too.”

Mr Papadopoulos stops his bluster, freezing in place to glare at Bucky. 

“That’s just what I heard,” Bucky says innocently, holding out a pair of khaki pants. Deciding that he’s ribbed the old man enough for now--the last thing Bucky needs is to get Mr Papadopoulos’ blood pressure up--he gently steers him towards the couch.

If anyone had asked him ten years ago what he’d be doing with his life, Bucky would never have guessed that he’d be a live-in nurse, especially not after his aspirations of having military career. 

But here he is, dealing with a cantankerous old man who made Donald Trump look like a tree hugger. 

Okay, that’s probably an exaggeration. But there’s no denying that the old guy is a serious pain in the ass most days.

Still, despite everything, Bucky loves Ambrose Papadopoulos. The older man had found him during a dark time in Bucky’s life, after he’d lost his arm in a car accident. His dreams of joining the military had been crushed in the few seconds it took for some jackass to skip a red light. Free falling and in self-destruct mode, Bucky had needed someone to give him a sharp kick in the ass. 

Mr Papadopoulos had been more than up to the task back then.

Dinner is a quiet affair. Bucky had made lamb moussaka during Mr Papadopoulos’ afternoon nap, and has to fight a grin at the way the old man tears into the food. 

They’re watching the news when Mr Papadopoulos speaks. 

“Tell me somethin’, kid.” 

“I don’t know if Hillary Clinton is a lesbian, Papa,” Bucky says immediately. It was something the old man had asked him before, and he  _ never  _ wants to have that discussion again.

“That wasn’t what I was gonna ask you,” Mr Papadopoulos grumbles. He shifts in his seat, and it takes another few minutes for him to speak. Bucky has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning.

“What I  _ wanted  _ to ask,” Mr Papadopoulos continues gruffly. “Is, well… Ain’t there somethin’ else you could do?”

“Somethin’ else I could do with… what?” Bucky says blankly.

“Don’t you have any friends?” the old man asks. “It’s a Saturday night, kid. Surely you got better things to do’n spend it with me.”

Bucky frowns. This wasn’t the line of questioning he’d been expecting. In fact, for as long as Bucky’s known him, Mr Papadopoulos had never given any indication that he ever thought about Bucky’s social life. And why would he? For most of the time they’d known each other, Mr Papadopoulos had been his mentor, and now, his boss. 

There hadn’t been anyone else.

“You’re sellin’ yourself short,” Bucky tells him, forcing a grin. 

“And you’re not answerin’ my question,” Mr Papadopoulos tells him. “Ain’t there a pretty girl?” Bucky’s about to make some glib reply when the old man continues, “A pretty boy?”

That cuts off any smartass remark Bucky can think of. He gives Mr Papadopoulos a sharp look.

“It’s okay if you do, ya know,” Mr Papadopoulos says. “I know I can be a, uh… kind of an asshole… ‘bout that sorta thing.”

“Ya think?” Bucky asks. He doesn’t look at the older man; desperately, Bucky searches for a way to change the subject. This is the last thing he wants to talk to Mr Papadopoulos about. It’s not something he’s comfortable speaking about to anyone.

“Look, I know--”

“Mr Papadopolous, please,” Bucky cuts him off. “Can we not do this?”

The old man sighs, hands held up in surrender.

“Fine,” he says. “But lemme say one thing, an’ I'll shut right up.” Mr Papadopoulos doesn't wait for Bucky to agree before he continues, “You're a good kid, James. An’ you deserve to be happy. Even if it's with a fairy.”

Unable to stop his lips from twitching at that, Bucky rolls his eyes. It's hardly the most offensive thing Mr Papadopoulos has said to him, and he knows that the old man means well. 

“Thanks, Papa. But I don't have much time for a relationship right now. Too busy takin’ care of you.” Patting Mr Papadopoulos on the knee, Bucky gets to his feet. “You gonna be okay down here for a while? I'll run you a bath.”

Expression unusually serious, Mr Papadopoulos replies with a wordless nod. His gnarled fingers toy with the set of worry beads that are never far out of his reach. 

It's cause for concern, and Bucky makes a mental note to have a quiet word with the old man’s doctor the next time he sees her. With one last worried look at Mr Papadopoulos, Bucky makes his way down the hallway. 

The disquiet lasts for the rest of the night. 


	2. Chapter 2

**_Twenty Years Ago_ **

“I can't believe you  _ bought  _ yourself a  _ kid _ . Hell, if you'd wanted one so bad, I’da let you have mine.”

Nick Fury closes his eyes, silently praying for patience. One of the best things about Howard Stark’s capricious nature is that he flits from one topic to the next, seemingly at random, and never for very long. 

But he'd been stuck on this particular subject for almost a week. 

“First of all,” Nick says irritably, “I did not  _ buy  _ her. I adopted her, going through all the legal channels.”

“Oh, please,” Howard interrupts. “You are a black man taking in a little white girl. You had to grease some palms.”

_ Why did I agree to go into business with this fool? _

Because he's a damn good lawyer. 

“Think I like you better in the courtroom,” Nick mutters under his breath.

“Huh?”

“I’m not takin’ parenting advice from you,” he says, more loudly. “You can barely remember your own kid’s name.”

“Harsh,” Howard sniffs. “But not entirely inaccurate.” He shakes off his pique before continuing, “You work the same hours as me, Nick. And unless you have a wife that I’ve never been introduced to--wise choice, I gotta tell ya--then that little girl is gonna be all on her own. And isn’t that how you found her?”

Howard’s words hit a little too close to home. Ever since he’d brought Natasha back to his apartment with him, she’d been left with the au pair. For the last two or three nights, Nick hadn’t been even gotten back to the apartment before the little girl had been put to bed.

Guilt tugs at him, and Howard gives him a knowing look. 

“Maybe see if you can return her or--”

“Re--” Nick cuts himself off with a scowl. “She’s not a pair of shoes. I can’t just  _ return _ her.”

“Then what are ya gonna do? ‘Cause trust me, you do  _ not _ wanna deal with a sullen teenager with daddy issues.” 

_ No _ , Nick realises.  _ I really don’t. _

“Ya know what, Howie?” Nick says, purposely using the nickname just to see Howard grimace. “I think you’re right.” He doesn’t wait for the other man to reply, instead striding out of Howard’s office in search of his secretary.

Thankfully, Phil Coulson seems to be some kind of mind reader, because before Nick can spend more than a minute searching for him, Phil appears at his elbow. 

“Something I can help you with, sir?” he asks politely. 

“You gonna stop calling me that anytime soon?” 

“No, sir.”

“Even though I’ve asked you a thousand times?”

“I’m sure it hasn’t been that many times, sir.”

_ Surrounded by a buncha smartasses. _

“Need ya to cancel my appointments,” Nick says, rolling his eyes. “‘Til about,” he pauses to check his watch, estimating how long it’ll take him to get where he needs to be, “three o’clock.”

“C-c-cancel? Your appointments?” Coulson’s eyes have widened comically, and he’s stopped in his tracks; Nick smirks. 

“My daughter finishes up at school in a few minutes. I gotta go pick her up.”

Coulson’s brown eyes warm, and his lips quirk up into the barest hint of a smile. It’s a reaction that causes a strange fluttering sensation in Nick’s stomach that he ruthlessly suppresses.

_ Last thing we need right now is a sexual harassment lawsuit. _

“I’ll reschedule what I can, sir,” Coulson tells him confidently.

Which means that all of Nick’s meetings will be shifted around to accommodate his change of plans. 

“You’re a good man, Coulson,” Nick says, giving him a nod of approval. Then, before he can do anything too ill-advised, like clap a friendly hand on Coulson’s shoulder, Nick leaves the office.

The drive to Natasha’s school is a short one, although he does get into a shouting match with a cabbie. Friggin’ yahoos think they can go wherever they goddamn well please. Still, it's not enough to pop the little bubble of excitement he feels at being the one to pick Natasha up. 

He pulls up to the parking lot a few minutes early. It's then that he spots a familiar vehicle. 

_ Damn it. _

Getting out of his car, Nick heads over to where a young man is sitting in a clapped out VW beetle, with its windows down and music blaring, immersed in a guitar solo.

At least, that’s what Nick  _ thinks  _ it is. The young man could just as easily be having a seizure.

“Scott,” he says loudly, hoping to be heard over whatever the hell it is the kid’s listening to. 

Maybe he should’ve done more to make sure the kid saw him coming, because Scott yelps at the sound of his voice.

“Fuck me! I-I-I mean...” Flustered, Scott fumbles with the radio, clumsily trying to turn his music down. It takes all of Nick’s self control to keep his expression even; the panicked look on Scott Lang’s face is priceless.

The kid is majoring in electrical engineering, and is one of the smartest people Nick’s ever met, not including Howard’s son, Tony. However, unlike Tony, Scott has an affinity for children, and is so completely laid back, it’s a wonder he can make it through the day vertical.

“God, Mr Fury, I am  _ so _ sorry,” Scott says, voice higher than usual. “I didn’t mean that thing about fuck--” He stops when Nick raises his eyebrows. “Not that you’re not a really attractive man, in the whole tall, dark and broody--” Scott stops, and then rests his head against his steering wheel. “I’m fired, aren’t I?”

“Just tell me you don’t use that language around Natasha.”

Scott gives him an indecipherable look before answering.

“No, sir. I don’t think she needs to hear it.” He clears his throat before asking, “But, uh… is everything okay, sir? I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

“All good. I’m sorry, I shoulda called. Spur of the moment thing, I thought I’d take Natasha out for lunch.”

“That’s a great idea,” Scott enthuses. “I’ll get out of your hair.” His eyes immediately flicker over Nick’s bald head, and he winces. “I, uh, I mean…”

“Don’t go too far,” Nick warns, ignoring the commentary. “I’m gonna drop her off at home before I head back to the office. There’s still some stuff I need to take care of.”

“Oh, yeah, sure. That’s perfect.”

A minute or so later, Scott pulls out of the parking lot, sparing a moment to give a cheery wave that’s almost completely obscured by the plume of smoke emitting from that rustbucket car. 

_ Okay, I am not gonna be lettin’ my daughter in that damn thing again. _

The thought’s just gone through his his head when he hears a small voice behind him, “Mr Fury?”

School’s let out, and the sound of children shouting and laughing has started to fill the air. It’s a nice sound, but...

_ Why does everyone keep calling me that? _

Nick turns around to find Natasha standing just behind him; he hadn’t even heard her approaching. Her bright red hair has been tied into a neat braid, with only a few errant strands sticking out. 

“Hey, kiddo,” he says, trying to appear fatherly. “How was school?”

No answering smile, only a wary look.

“What’s wrong?” she asks. Nick notices how she doesn’t come any closer.

“Nothing’s wrong.”

_ Weird reaction. _

“Where’s Scott?” There’s the slightest tremor in her voice. 

It slowly dawns on Nick that breaking a vulnerable child’s newly established routine was maybe not the best idea. Getting down on his haunches, he looks Natasha in the eye.

“Scott’s at the apartment. I thought I’d take you out for lunch, since I missed dinner the last couple nights. But if you want, I can take you straight home.”

He doesn’t push for an answer from her, even as parents and children swarm around them. Finally, after a long moment of carefully assessing him, Natasha nods.

“Okay.”

“Okay, you wanna go home? Or okay, we can grab something to eat?” Nick asks gently.

“We can eat.”

After offering to carry Natasha’s bag for her--which actually had her taking a step back--they walk to the car. Natasha’s quiet the whole drive over to the restaurant, even when Nick tries to ask her about her day. 

Giving up for the time being, Nick contemplates taking her to McDonald’s. Kids like those Happy Meal things, right? 

But no. If he’s gonna be doing the dad thing, he’s not gonna half ass it.

He chooses a restaurant called Eataly--stupid goddamn name, but it seems family friendly--and finds a parking spot across the road from the place.

“Whoa, whoa, where you goin’?” Nick demands, alarmed as Natasha attempts to cross over without waiting for him.

“I thought we were going to eat there.” That wary look is back, more intense than before. Nick presses his lips together, feeling like he’s walking on eggshells.

“Sorry, I just--C’mon,” he holds his hand out to her, “we’ll cross together.”

The first time he’d come across Natasha had been almost a year ago. He’d been on his way back from a meeting with a client, being jostled among the other pedestrians when something had made him look down. A tiny hand was deftly lifting his wallet from his pocket.

Now, that same small hand is in his, and Nick can’t help but frown slightly at the way Natasha immediately lets go as soon as they’re outside the restaurant. 

Someone had hurt this little girl. It makes Nick sick to think of it.

“Can cross the road by myself,” she mutters, arms folded tightly across her chest.

“Yeah, but you don’t have to. I’m here for you.”

Natasha speaks too low for him to make her words out clearly, but it sounds suspiciously like, “For now.”

_ Shit. Okay, this is not good. _

They obviously need to have a conversation.

Waiting until they’re in the restaurant, Nick takes a moment to study Natasha from across the table. She’s staring at the brightly coloured menu the way most people stare at poisonous spiders. 

_ I gotta stop bein’ so hard on Howard. This parenting thing is hard. _

“So, uh, Natasha, there’s somethin’ I wanna talk to you about,” Nick begins.

“It’s okay,” she says softly. “I already know.”

Nick’s eyebrows shoot up. He opens his mouth to say something when Natasha continues in that same quiet voice.

“You’re gonna send me back.”

This is said with such calm resignation that Nick doesn’t know what to say. Finally, he manages to stammer out, “I-I-I’m not gonna--Why… Why would you think that?”

Quiet as Natasha seems to huddle into herself, shoulders hunched and arms folded. She doesn’t look at him.

“Look, Natasha, I’ve gone about this the wrong way.” Nick leans forward, willing her to meet his gaze. “But I  _ promise _ you… you are staying with me. Okay? I’m gonna take care of you.”

Going by the disbelieving little smile she gives him, it’s going to take a lot more than words for Nick to convince her. 

_ But that’s okay,  _ Nick decides as he peruses the menu. He’s gotten pretty good at getting people to see things his way.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**Present Day**

“These two should not be allowed to hang out.”

“You wanna be the one to tell ‘em that?”

Sam Wilson casts Bucky an amused look before looking back over at their respective charges. They’re in the doctor’s waiting room, and Mr Papadopoulos and Mrs Shields, Sam’s patient, are having a serious conversation about their various ailments and what they take to treat them. They’re even comparing pillboxes. 

“Old man’s slick,” Sam comments. “Next he’s gonna be showin’ her the scars from his hip replacement.”

“Jesus, don’t even kid about that,” Bucky mutters back. It’s all too easy to imagine the old man dropping trou to impress the regal looking Mrs Shields.

Rolling his eyes when Sam snickers at him, Bucky tries to ignore the itchy feeling under his skin. It seems ridiculous, for a nurse to get freaked out by doctors, but he can’t quite manage to force his reaction down. Bucky can feel his left hand clenching at his side, and there’s a faint whirring sound as the mechanics in his metal arm recalibrate. 

After his accident, Bucky had fallen into a depression. Much like his car, any hope of joining the army had been totalled. All that was left was just… loss. 

This place just brings it all flooding back.

“Mr Papapoulos?” the receptionist calls. “The doctor will see you now.” 

Disappointment makes the old man’s face crumple into a scowl. 

“Can’t I just have a couple more minutes?” he asks plaintively. The receptionist’s mouth twitches with laughter, and she shakes her head ruefully. 

“I'm sorry, Mr Papapoulos, but the doctor’s got a busy day ahead of her.”

“Exactly,” Bucky adds. With a quick nod at Sam, he takes the old man gently by the arm and helps him to his feet. “Dr Carter’s got better things to do than wait around while you flirt.”

“I bet she does,” Mr Papapoulos grumbles as he shuffles forward. “Probably playin’ golf.”

“Actually, I find tennis is more my speed,” Dr Carter says cheerfully. 

Dr Peggy Carter was from England originally, although she’d come to the States to study medicine at Stanford. And while she’d liked California just fine, her ultimate destination had been New York.

And how did Bucky know all this?

He’d been a patient of hers for a while after his last rough patch. It’s not something Bucky likes to remember. 

“It’s good to see you again, Ambrose,” Dr Carter says with a wide smile, hand extended. “You too, James.”

Smiling, Bucky is sure not to meet her gaze. Those big brown eyes are entirely too knowing, and Bucky is  _ not  _ in the mood to field any well meaning questions. 

Luckily, Mr Papadopoulos isn’t done complaining.

“Don’t even know why I gotta be here. I’m healthy as a goddamn horse.” 

“I don’t doubt it,” Peggy tells him. “But we’re still going to check, just to be on the safe side.”

“Buncha friggin’ leeches,” Mr Papadopoulos says mournfully. “Worse’n the government, always stickin’ their hands in your pockets.”

“Keep talkin’, Papa,” Bucky warns. “You’re bein’ rude to the lady who checks your prostate.”

Dr Carter barely manages to muffle a small giggle. She hastily turns away to hide her smile. But the words have had their intended effect, because Mr Papadopoulos clamps his mouth tightly shut. 

“Ready when you are, Ambrose,” Peggy says lightly.

“And that’s my cue. I’ll wait for you outside,” Bucky says, smirking at the slightly panicked look on Mr Papadopoulos’ face.  

The appointment doesn’t take long, and Bucky spends the time talking with Sam and flirting shamelessly with Mrs Shields. By the time Mr Papadopoulos comes out of the Dr Carter’s office, Mrs Shields is giggling and pink in the cheeks; he scowls at Bucky.

“Snakin’ in on my girl,” Mr Papadopoulos mutters once they’ve left. “I thought I could trust ya, James.”

“All’s fair in love an’ war, Papa,” Bucky teases. 

Truth is, he enjoys spending time with the older folk, despite all the… issues that sometimes come up. It’s so much easier to make an old lady blush and an old man bluster than to try and deal with the dozens of conversational hurdles with a younger crowd. 

“So, what’s the verdict?” Bucky asks, shaking off the maudlin. “Doc give you the all clear?”

“You’da known that if you’d stayed,” Mr Papadopoulos grouses.

“Thought I’d give you some privacy.”

“Since when?” 

Bucky frowns over at Mr Papadopoulos. The old man has his hands in his pockets, and is avoiding Bucky’s gaze. It’s not like him to dodge on questions about his health--like he’d told Dr Carter, he was healthy--so the avoidance tactics worry Bucky.

“Hey.” Gently, Bucky puts his hand on the old man’s shoulder. “I need to know, if I’m gonna take care of you. Plus, y’know, Dr Carter will tell me if you don’t.”

More stalling as Mr Papadopoulos mutters about pushy young people. Finally, he sighs.

“My blood pressure’s a little higher than the Doc wants it. She thinks I should go for a blood test to check my cholesterol.”

As a nurse, Bucky knows that this shouldn’t be too big a deal. The test will get done, and whatever the results, they’ll adjust. 

But some niggling gut instinct has him freaking out a little.

“Did she give you a date for when these tests are gonna happen?” Bucky asks, working to keep his voice steady. Going by the look Mr Papadopoulos gives him, Bucky isn’t doing the greatest job with that.

“Sometime in the next two or three weeks.”

“Not good enough,” Bucky growls.

Once they arrive back at Mr Papadopoulos’ place, Bucky is on the phone to the hospital. Ignoring the old man’s protests, Bucky badgers the staff into getting an earlier appointment. Eventually, the woman on the phone tells him that they can come in on Monday.

“Thank you so much, I really--”

She hangs up on him.

“Yeah, well, I guess I deserved that,” he mutters.

Heaving a sigh, Bucky heads to tell Mr Papadopoulos about the change of plans.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**Six weeks later**

“You don’t have to be here for this,” Steve mutters.

“Yes, I do.”

“I’m not a kid.”

“Maybe it’ll get easier to remember once you stop acting like one.”

Steve tries to concentrate very hard on his breathing; it will not help Dr Banner’s stress levels if Steve tries to put his own head through the wall. 

“There was a reason I didn’t tell you,” he begins, but Nick cuts him off.

“Yeah, yeah, I heard the bullshit story you fed your sister.” Nick doesn’t even bother looking up from his tablet, too busy sending emails to actually  _ acknowledge  _ Steve’s glare.

And what’s worse is that, as Steve slumps in his seat and scowls, he  _ feels _ like a kid. From out of the corner of his eye, he thinks he sees the edge of Nick’s mouth quirk up in the barest hint of a smile.

_ Dads can be such jerks sometimes. _

Time seems to pass incredibly slowly, with Nick tapping away on his tablet, and Dr Banner taking his own sweet time. Steve can’t sit still for another minute; he feels like he’s going to crawl out of his skin. He pushes himself up from his seat.

“Where you goin’?” Nick asks, finally looking up. “Doc’s gonna be here any minute.”

“Need some fresh air,” he mutters back.

“Fresh air,” Nick scoffs. “Like there’s anything wrong with--”

“ _ Nick _ .” 

Something in Steve’s tone must alert Nick to the fact that his patience is beyond frayed at this point. Hands held up in surrender, Nick returns to his emails. 

It's a relief to be out of the doctor’s office. The building is a double story, housing both Dr Banner’s practice and a general practitioner that Steve had never met, since his laundry list of conditions tend to require a pretty specific skillset. 

There's a parking lot in front of the building, while in the back there's a beautiful garden. Dr Banner said it was his happy place, and looking around, Steve can understand why. Steve wanders around a little, and is pausing to admire the irises in full bloom, when he hears what sounds like a muffled sob. 

_ What the hell? _

Concerned, Steve moves around the enormous oak in the center of the garden to see a dark haired young woman shakily bringing a cigarette up to her mouth; she's struggling with the lighter. Black streaks mar her pale skin from where her mascara has run. 

It's not in Steve to leave a lady crying; still; it occurs to him that maybe she’d rather be left alone. 

“Excuse me, ma'am? Ma'am, are you okay?”

Startled, the woman looks up. 

“Wh-what? O-Oh, n-n-no, I'm f-fine,” she stammers, wiping hastily at her cheeks. Fresh tears soon replace them. 

She looks utterly miserable. 

“Is there someone I can get for you?” Steve asks, taking a hesitant step closer. 

“Th-thank you, but I'm quite alright.” The woman forces a smile as she adds, “This is terribly embarrassing, me falling apart like this. I've still got two patients to see today.”

“You're Dr Carter,” Steve says, realisation dawning. “D’you need me to get Dr Banner? Maybe he can help you somehow.”

The woman--Dr Carter--straightens up, and shoves her unlit cigarette and lighter into her purse.

“I'm afraid there's not much he can do at this point. A patient of mine, he-he…” She pauses to take a shuddering breath. “His heart gave out.” More tears leak from the corners of her eyes, but she makes no effort to wipe them away this time. 

Steve has a second to wish he'd just kept walking before feeling immediately ashamed of himself. He moves a few steps closer, careful not to crowd her. It's not like he's big enough to really loom over Dr Carter, but she has enough to deal with without having a strange man invading her personal space. 

Saying  _ I'm sorry _ seems trite and unhelpful, so he stays quiet. 

At a loss for anything else to do, Steve fishes around in his pocket for a handkerchief. It's an old fashioned habit Natasha laughs at him for, but he's glad he has it. The cloth is stained with ink splotches--back at the office his pen had started leaking--and he feels the sting of embarrassment as he passes it over. 

But Dr Carter doesn't appear to notice. She accepts with a tremulous smile. 

“I'm sorry,” Dr Carter says. “I hate people seeing me like this. It's r-rather humiliating.” 

“You don't need to apologise,” Steve tells her gently. “I'm guessing that it was sudden.”

“Rather,” Peggy admits. “His live-in is devastated. They'd known each other for years.”

Steve’s about to open his mouth to say something else, he has no idea what, when his phone lets out an angry buzz in his pocket. He's just decided to ignore it when it occurs to him...

_ Shit. I forgot about Nick. _

_ Oh, yeah, I'm gonna hear about it.  _

“God, Doc, I'm so sorry, but I really gotta take this,” Steve says apologetically. “One sec.”

“Take your time.” Dr Carter seems to have regained some control, her voice losing its shaky quality. 

“Nick, listen--”

“Where in the hell are you? Are you in the middle of an asthma attack? Has your heart exploded? Because those are the only acceptable reasons for you to be keeping Dr Banner waiting.”

_ Deep breaths, Steve, deep breaths. _

“I’ll be up in a minute,” he says, casting Dr Carter an apologetic look rather than bothering to argue with Nick. There's still something intensely vulnerable about her beneath the brittle front she’s put up. Nick is still barking orders, but Steve has stopped listening. 

Hanging up, Steve turns back to Dr Carter. She smiles at him.

“Thank you for this,” she says, fingers clenched around his handkerchief. “But I’m not entirely sure you’ll want it back after this.” Dr Carter has a nice laugh, even though it’s kind of wobbly.

“You can hold onto it,” Steve tells her. “I got more.”

They stare at each other for a few seconds before it gets awkward. 

“Okay, well, uh, take care of yourself,” Steve says as begins to back away. “And I’m…” He clears his throat. “I’m really sorry for your loss.”

It’s just as he’s beginning to walk away when Dr Carter calls out to him.

“Just a moment, please.” She waits until Steve turns around before continuing. “I didn’t get your name.”

“Steve. Steve Rogers.”

After that, Steve hurries off. By the time he makes it up the stairs to Dr Banner’s office, he’s out of breath and his cheeks are flushed. He finds both Nick and Dr Banner are waiting for him.

“Sorry,” he huffs, speaking mostly to Dr Banner so he doesn’t have to meet Nick’s glare. “Flowers triggered my allergies.”

Judging by the loud scoff, Nick doesn’t believe him. And, if the way Dr Banner’s eyebrows lift is any indication, he isn’t convinced either. 

At least Dr Banner’s too polite to call him out on it.

“Please, come in,” he says with a smile, arm extended to invite them into his office. 

“Thanks.” 

Steve leads the way in, pretending he doesn't hear Nick muttering, “Allergies, my ass,” from behind him. This is going to be a  _ long  _ day.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to note, Luke Charles is one of T'Challa's aliases. I searched high and low for T'Challa's last name to no avail (WHY? WHY DO PEOPLE NOT GIVE CHARACTERS LAST NAMES???), so I went for that. But I'm pretty sure (78% sure) that he'll revert to T'Challa at some point.

Back when Nick had told his Mama that he was gonna be a lawyer, she hadn’t been impressed.

“ _An ambulance chaser? Thought I raised you better’n that.”_

_“Ya did,” Nick had replied with a cocky grin. “That’s why I’m gonna be the best damn ambulance chaser in the city.”_

She’d smacked him upside the head for using that kind of language, but Nick knew she’d been proud of him, just like she was proud of all her kids.

Now, sitting there in Dr Banner’s office, listening to all the reasons why his son’s heart could just stop beating, he wonders how his Mama had dealt with it all on her own. At least he has Phil, his partner and confidant; Lerato Fury hadn’t had anybody.

“Is Steve eligible for a transplant?” Nick says, interrupting Banner’s lecture on keeping hydrated and staying away from strenuous exercise. It should be an obvious thing, but that’s never stopped Steve from getting into trouble before.

“Uh, Mr Fury, I think that might be… a little premature.”

“Just like me,” Steve mumbles. He smirks when Nick glowers at him.

“Why premature?” Nick demands. “Should we just wait ‘til he drops dead?”

“Nick, it’s fine--” Steve tries, reaching out to touch Nick’s elbow, obviously picking up on his upset. All traces of self-deprecating humour have disappeared, replaced by concern.

Goddamn ridiculous, Steve worrying about him when Steve’s the one with a heart that could stop at any minute. Even the possibility makes Nick feel like he can’t breathe.

So yeah, he thinks he’s justified in losing his cool just a little.

Clearly, Dr Banner is uncomfortable. He starts worrying at the slightly frayed hem of the sweater he’s wearing beneath the standard white lab coat.

“It’s not so simple as just having a transplant,” the doctor begins. “There’s a whole process involved, other treatments to try before that can even begin… Mr Fury, I understand your concern, but Steve _does_ have options.”

The appointment concludes not long after. Nick’s neck and shoulders are tense, and his mind is racing through his list of contacts, wondering who to talk to to see that Steve’s taken care of.

He’s halfway to the car when he realises that Steve’s fallen behind.

Looking around, he sees that Steve is staring after him calmly, apparently content to wait until Nick had noticed that they were no longer side by side. Impatience bites at him, mixing in with the fear the doctor’s appointment had brought with it.

“You waitin’ on an engraved invitation?” Nick asks roughly. “I’ve got a meeting with Howard in an hour, so I need ya to hustle.”

“I didn’t think you’d freak out like this,” Steve says, having planted himself like a tree on the spot where he’s standing. “You never freak out about anything.”

Nick just stares at him for a few long moments before moving closer. He stops just in front of Steve.

“Mama used to have this saying, back when me an’ my brothers were tearing around town,” Nick murmurs. “She always said kids caused their parents pain. No matter what they did; whether they were makin’ ya happy or sad. Pain comes with the territory.” Steve opens his mouth to interrupt, but Nick holds up a hand to stop him. “An’ that’s ‘cause your heart isn’t meant to beat outside your body. That’s what each kid is, y’know. An important piece of you that you can’t always take care of.”

It’s a struggle to meet Steve’s eyes now, but he does it. 

“That’s what you and your sister are to me, Steven. So if you need a new heart, or if Natasha needs someone to fall off the face of the earth, you can bet that I’ll make damn sure it happens.”

Satisfied that he’s said his peace, Nick heads towards the car. He knows without having to look that Steve is following.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**Two Weeks Later**

“You need to get up.”

“Fuck off.”

“I will. But first you must get up.”

_Jesus Christ, like a goddamn motherfucking parrot._

“Can’na guy mourn in peace?” he slurred. Head aching, Bucky glares at Luke Charles, his roommate, through bloodshot eyes. A tall man with dark skin and serious brown eyes, Luke was living in New York with the hopes of becoming a chef. Which is great, power to him. Only thing is, his parents were under the impression that he’s teaching politics at NYU.

Most days, Bucky would call Luke his best friend. Hell, one of his only friends, apart from Sam and…

_Can’t think about that._

“This is not mourning,” Luke tells him in that stupidly deep voice. “You are trying to join your friend.”

“One of us is gonna be joinin’ him, if you don’ get the hell out,” Bucky threatens.

Silence for a few seconds, followed by the sound of footsteps moving around his room. Bucky realises too late where Luke is heading.

The curtains of his room are unceremoniously ripped open, allowing sunlight to pour in. Bucky lets out a wordless yell as the brightness seems to split his head in two.

“Asshole,” he growls, squeezing his eyes shut and pressing his face into his pillow. It doesn’t help; the light feels like it’s been burned onto his retinas.

“I will not say this again. Get up. Or I will have to call Sam. You know he will not be happy.”

Bucky wishes he could repeat his order for Luke to fuck off, but he knows that his roommate isn’t bluffing. What’s worse is that Bucky actually _cares_ what Sam thinks of him.

“Goddamn it to hell,” he mutters.

 _Gonna put a call through to Luke’s parents_ , Bucky thinks sullenly. _Tell ‘em that the asshole’s flippin’ burgers ‘stead of teachin’ a buncha snot noses ‘bout diplomacy._

He’d never do it. But the idea does cheer him up a little.

Staggering out of bed, Bucky tries to ignore the ache in his back and shoulder. The metal prosthetic is clunky and heavy, placing strain on Bucky’s spine; some days it’s so bad, he itches to resume old habits.

_Don’t think like that._

It’s an effort to shake the thought off, but he’s had a lot of practice _not_ dealing.

_Keep on keeping on, Barnes._

Bucky heads for the bathroom, splashing his face with cold water, hoping to chase away the exhaustion clinging to him. He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror, and can’t hide his wince.

_I look like shit._

Loud knocking comes from outside the bathroom; it seems to echo in Bucky’s head.

“Ugh, for _fuck’s sake_ , Luke,” he groans.

“Just want to be sure you have not died in there.”

“Always so friggin’ dramatic,” Bucky mutters. Shuffling over to the door, he yanks it open to come face to face with Luke. The other man’s face is completely impassive.

It’s a neat trick, one Bucky can appreciate on a good day.

Today is not a good day.

“Look, I’m up,” he says irritably. “The hell else d’you want?”

“For you to take a shower, to begin with,” Luke tells him. “When you are finished, come into the kitchen. I am making breakfast.”

And then, before Bucky can do anything more than scowl at him, Luke shuts the door in his face.

“Jackass,” he mutters under his breath.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bucky comes out of the shower somehow feeling worse than when he’d gone in. Like some kind of sad cliche, he’d spent the last twenty minutes, he’d sobbed as the water poured over his head. The loss had hit him all over again as images of the EMTs wheeling Ambrose away had replayed through his head.

The last Bucky had seen of his old friend had been a weathered old hand swaying gently along as the gurney was loaded into the ambulance.

_Don’t think about it._

He manages to get dressed--an old pair of sweats, and a baggy tshirt that clings to his still damp skin--and makes his way into the kitchen with purposeful steps. It takes eighteen to get there. Bucky watches his feet, tries not to gag at the smell of bacon.

“You look terrible.”

“Stop, you’re makin’ me blush,” Bucky answers dully.

An impatient noise escapes Luke’s throat. It’s a sound Bucky’s become familiar with these last couple of weeks; usually, it gets accompanied by…

“This book I am reading,” Luke begins seriously. “It details the five stages of grief.”

“Oh, Christ.”

“I believe you are in the denial phase.”

“Do we have to talk about this?”

Luke purses his lips. They’ve known each other for a while, ever since Luke had escorted an elderly Muslim man into New York Community Hospital. A bunch of kids who’d thought they were badasses had been shoving the old guy around; they’d thought because there was five of them that they’d be able to take Luke on too.

A painful mistake, by all accounts.

They’d kept in touch after the incident--Bucky was always a sucker for a white knight--and after… everything that had happened, Luke had invited Bucky to stay with him for a while.

“You should speak to someone about this,” Luke says gently. “I know it has not been long since Mr Papadopoulos’ passing, but--”

_No, no, nope. Not talking about this._

Getting to his feet, Bucky backs away from Luke. He can’t deal with this, not right now. It’s only been two weeks, he shouldn’t _have_ to fuckin’ talk about this, _it’s only been two weeks!_

“ _James_!” Sympathy and alarm have coloured Luke’s normally stoic features, and his hands are held up in a placating gesture. Belatedly, Bucky realises that he’d been shouting.

“It is alright,” Luke continues gently. “We do not need to speak of this now. But… if you do wish to… I will listen.”

He claps a hand to Bucky’s shoulder, squeezes reassuringly, before heading into his bedroom. Bucky hears the door shutting softly.

It’s a nice offer, one Bucky appreciates. But he can’t talk about it. Not right now. Not if he wants to get through what comes next in one piece.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**Ten Years Ago**

Pain. It’s everywhere, inescapable and never ending.

But underneath all that is something far worse. A persistent itch behind his left knee that he just can’t reach. It’s driving him _insane._

Sitting beside him, Becca is staring blankly at the wall opposite. Her hands are clenched into small fists; her silver watch glints dimly under the flourescent lighting.

“Ma’s gone to get coffee,” Becca says after a few minutes, finally noticing that Bucky had been watching her. There’s no intonation in her voice, her expression doesn’t change.

It’s almost as though Becca had lost something too.

Silence descends again, heavy and oppressive. The itch behind his knee gets worse.

Bucky wants to scream.

He doesn’t know how much time passes--ten minutes? An hour?--when Winifred Barnes finally enters the hospital room. Her face is pale, and there are lines of strain at the edges of her mouth.

“Oh, James, y-y-you’re awake,” she stammers. Smile not quite reaching her eyes, Winifred puts her coffee down on his bedside table, and smoothes his blankets down compulsively. “How are you feeling? Can I get you something? Anything?”

“‘M fine,” Bucky mumbles. Then a slightly bitter laugh escapes him.

_Yeah, I’m just great._

The fluttering doesn’t stop; while Becca barely moves, Winifred can’t seem to hold still. She’s pacing, a feat considering how small the room is.

His throat is dry, his lips cracked. But that’s not important right now. It takes Bucky a few seconds to gather his courage before he manages to force the words out.

“Where’s dad?”

Winifred finally stills; in direct contrast, Becca glances up sharply. She looks angry.

“Your father--He, uh--” Winifred takes a deep breath. “He’s struggling with things a little bit now. But he should be able to come tomorrow.”

“He’s… struggling… with things,” Bucky repeats slowly. “Things like me losin’ my arm? Or things like him catchin’ me makin’ out with a guy?”

There’s a long, tense silence.

“It’ll just… take some time, James. We-We didn’t kn--We didn’t expect to find out that you were…”

“A fag?” Bucky asks in a hoarse voice. Using that word hurts almost as much as the space where his arm used to be.

“What? James, no, no, don’t use that word.”

“Why not? Dad did.”

Winifred doesn’t know what to say to that. She stares at him helplessly for a moment before she continues her pacing. It feels like the ache in his arm has migrated to the centre of his chest.

And still, the itch behind his knee persists.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**Present Day**

Staff meetings are the bane of his existence. Listening to Nick droning on about office protocol--someone kept stealing paper from the copying machine--Steve almost finds himself wishing for an asthma attack.

Beside him at the enormous desk is Natasha. Her features are perfectly composed, hands folded in front of her, and she’s sitting up straight.

Steve is willing to bet that she’s bored out of her mind.

Watching Nick carefully out the corner of his eye, Steve brings his legal pad closer to him, and picks up a pen. Fingers light and quick, he doodles a quick caricature of Nick, exaggerating the way his brows are drawn together in a deep scowl.

He’s sure to keep his movements slow as he pushes the page toward Natasha. Then, when she doesn’t immediately look over, Steve lets out a soft little cough.

Her gaze flickers away from Nick, and drops down to the desk. For just a second, her expression remains blank; then, her lips twitch and a small sound escapes her throat, suspiciously close to a giggle.

It’s a tiny sound sound, barely audible, but it catches the attention of the lawyer sitting opposite Nat. His eyebrows lift a fraction as he looks between Steve and Natasha.

Clint Barton is a new addition to the team. The guy’s an estate lawyer, but Steve doesn’t know much else about him beyond that. Well, that’s not entirely true.

What Steve has also noticed is that Barton has a scarily extensive collection of novelty ties.

Grinning, Steve brings the pad closer to him and scribbles a quick note for Nat to read.

_I like Barton’s tie._

Her gaze flicks across to Clint, skittering over his face to settle on his tie: it’s covered in ghoulishly grinning clowns. Steve has to press his lips together to keep from sniggering at the thinly veiled look of disgust she gives him.

 _The guy is_ _insane_ _. There are_ clowns _on his goddamn tie._

_So???_

_Clowns are creepy_ , Natasha writes back.

_He’s cute. You can look passed it._

Steve watches his sister carefully as she reads his message. She keeps her expression neutral.

_I hadn’t noticed._

And that’s how Steve knows his sister’s full of shit. Natasha notices _everything._ It’s one of the most annoying things about her.

    _You could bounce a quarter off his ass._

Just like that, Natasha’s calm expression cracks as the faintest beginning of a blush tints her cheeks. She’s just about to write back when…

“Natasha. Steven. Is there something you’d like to share with the rest of us?” Nick asks loudly. He’d managed to sneak up behind them without either of them noticing. The surprise of it makes Steve’s heart jump, and Nat hurriedly flips the notepad over.

“Uh…” Steve flicks his gaze in Nat’s direction, hoping for some backup.

“We were brainstorming what to get you for Father’s Day,” Nat inserts, smiling up at Nick.

_Oooh, playing the daddy’s-little-girl card. Nice._

Sadly, it doesn’t seem to work; Nick’s still glaring at them. Up front, Howard Stark--who’s usually the one getting chewed out for messing around during meetings--is grinning broadly. Somehow, that makes the whole thing even more embarrassing.

Thankfully, though, Nick lets it go, but not before snatching up Steve’s notepad. He turns away after giving them one last reproachful look.

“As I was saying…”

Natasha and Steve avoid looking at each other for the duration of the meeting.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“An’ just where do you two think you’re goin’?”

_Shit._

Freezing in place, Steve and Nat exchange a resigned look. This isn’t gonna be fun.

“To work,” Natasha says, making it sound like a question. Her usual composure is absent in the face of Nick’s censure.

“On what, exactly? Bouncin’ coins offa people’s rears?”

 _Don’t laugh. Do_ not _laugh._

A few long seconds pass while Nick glares at them, and Steve and Nat try to come up with something to say. It’s clear Nick’s expecting an apology, and it’s probably best to give him one.

It’ll make things go faster, at least.

“We’re sorry, sir,” Steve said, whipping out his most earnest expression. “Won’t happen again.”

“You’re damn right it won’t happen again,” Nick growled. “Bad enough that we still got Howard runnin’ ‘round, tryin’ to play grab ass. I don’t need you two addin’ to the possibility of us dealin’ with a sexual harassment lawsuit.”

Steve doesn’t dare look in Natasha’s direction. Instead, they both stand perfectly still, and wait to be dismissed.

Finally, Nick sighs.

“Go. Pretend to do what I pay you for.”

“Yes, sir.”

Not needing to be told twice, Nat and Steve hurry off; Steve feels a grin fighting to break free. Beside him, Natasha looks like she’s doing the same thing. As soon as they round a corner, out of view of Nick, they both burst out laughing.

That’s why what happens next is so unexpected. One second Nat and Steve are laughing like kids and the next… the next Steve’s lungs seem to stop working.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quote about children being the heart that beats outside a parent's chest isn't mine. I paraphrased it from a quote I found on the internet. It's originally by Debra Ginsberg.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just feel the need to mention that I've actually been lucky enough to not remember having to stay overnight in hospital, so I'm sure I've gotten a few things wrong. Sorry about that!

The funeral had been hard. Maybe the hardest thing Bucky had ever had to do. Nobody had shown up, not really. Just Bucky and the few acquaintances Mr Papadopoulos had had. Sam had brought Mrs Shields along with him, while Luke had come to provide moral support; Dr Carter had taken the morning off to pay her respects.

A whole long life, and barely a handful of people who’d bother to see you off. It makes Bucky’s throat tighten.

Ambrose had deserved so much better than this.

It had taken some doing, but Bucky had managed to talk the Presbyter to give Ambrose an orthodox burial. The old man had long since lost his faith, but Bucky feels better for having done this.

That’s what funerals are for, after all. Comforting the living more than a sendoff for the dead.

Right at the end, Dr Carter comes over to him. Her eyes are red, and her lips tremble when she attempts a smile. Bucky doesn’t have the energy to try to return it.

“He was a good man,” Dr Carter says softly. “I’m going to miss him.”

_Me too._

“Any idea what you’re going to do now?”

“Haven’t thought that far ahead,” Bucky finally manages. His voice is hoarse.

Silence. Dr Carter reaches out to squeeze his hand, and it’s comforting. Too much so; Bucky can feel his control threatening to fracture.

“I know some people down at the hospital,” she offers. “I can talk to them about finding you a position, if you like.”

It’s a good idea, but Bucky’s already shaking his head.

“You know how I feel about those places.”

“A nurse afraid of hospitals. There’s a bit of irony for you,” she says.

“Yeah. I know.” Bucky gently pulls his hand free, gets to his feet. “An’, uh, thanks. Tha-That might be a good idea. Dunno if I could do the whole, uh… live-in thing again. It’s too hard.”

“Alright. Well, you’ll let me know, won’t you?”

Bucky nods, and it’s not long before he’s alone again. He figures that Luke will be waiting outside the church, waiting to take him… Well, not home.

He doesn’t have one of those anymore.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not _fine_ , Steven. Look around you. You’re in hospital. _Fine_ people are not admitted into the emergency room.”

Much as he wishes it wasn’t the case, Steve is familiar with this particular song and dance. God knows he’s done it enough times before.

Beside him, Natasha is pacing like a cat. The hospital room is bigger than it ought to be for a single patient, and there’s even a worn armchair in the corner. Nat’s too restless to use it.

Nick had told Nat to ride with Steve in the ambulance while he followed behind in his car. And while Steve hadn’t been conscious when they arrived at the hospital, it’s all too easy to imagine the scene Nick had caused upon entering the emergency room.

Actually, he’d rather not think about it.

“I fainted,” he mutters. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Says you,” Natasha replies. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“Sorry.”

“Damn straight.”

This voice belongs to Nick, who’s marching into the room and toward Steve’s bed without hesitation. He reaches out to bring the backs of his fingers to Steve’s forehead. It’s such a fatherly gesture, one that comes less frequently now that Steve is all grown up, that it makes Steve smile a little.

“How’re you feelin’?” Nick asks.

“Ready to get outta here.”

Nick lets out an obviously fake laugh.

“You’re a funny guy. Real funny, if you think you’re leavin’ without seein’ Dr Banner first.”

“Ugh, Nick, c’mon,” Steve complains. “I’m feelin’ better.”

He expects Nick to argue with him, to throw out more sarcasm. Instead, he just stares at Steve, expression bleak. The worry on his face makes Steve’s stomach sink.

It’s not in Steve to back down from a fight, but maybe… maybe if Dr Banner _told_ them that Steve would be okay, maybe they’d believe it.

Maybe he would.

They wait for Dr Banner in silence. Nick sits patiently in the armchair; Natasha keeps up her pacing, but her attention appears to be focused on her cellphone. When Steve suggests that she head back to work--there’s no real reason for her to wait--she gives him a disdainful look.

“I’m gonna pretend you didn’t say that.”

Finally, Dr Banner shows up. He looks frazzled, his dark curls an unruly mess, and the tail of his shirt untucked from his slacks. It’s not exactly a reassuring sight.

“Everyone, I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting,” Dr Banner says, faintly out of breath. “Traffic was a nightmare, and then I got held up by some lady whose kid fell out of a tree.” He shakes his head, seeming bewildered at the chaos of the emergency room.

“Well, you’re here now, Doc,” Nick replies. “Tell us what’s happenin’.”

Dr Banner hesitates. His hands come up in a futile attempt to straighten his hair. It’s a familiar nervous gesture that likely doesn’t bode well.

_Wonder if he’s gonna do some gardening when he’s done here._

“We’re gonna need to do some more tests,” Dr Banner begins. “It’ll probably take a while, but… from what I understand, you fainted?”

“Yeah. Uh, Nat an’ I, we were laughin’ about something, and then I just passed out.” Steve feels himself flush at that, embarrassed at the weakness.

“Had you been experiencing any dizziness before that? Coughing, nausea?” Dr Banner prompts.

“A little nauseous,” Steve admits. “But nothin’... major, y’know. Figured it mighta been my meds.”

“You could’ve mentioned that,” Nat chips in reprovingly.

“Sure, and I’ll be sure to tell you every time I stub my toe, or get constipated,” Steve snarks back.

“Not now,” Nick barks at them. To Banner, he continues in a calmer tone. “These symptoms, Doc, what do they mean?”

“It… The valves of Steve’s heart are suffering from an infection that, for the moment, at least, doesn’t appear to be too serious. Again, we’ll know more once I’ve run some tests.”

“There’s an infection?” Nat asks in a strangled voice. “What--That doesn’t sound… Why is there an infection?”

Dr Banner lets out a soft sigh, although Steve knows it’s not with impatience. It’s not something Banner enjoys, doling out shitty news to families. While some would point out that that’s kinda part of the job--and rightly so--Steve knows that the sense of helplessness is what bothers Dr Banner the most.

“Bacteria has caused streptococcus--almost like warts--to form on Steve’s heart. The antibiotics are to kill the bacteria and minimise the damage to the valves.” He hesitates for a moment before reluctantly adding, “Steve’s gonna have to spend some time in the hospital.”

“Surprise, surprise,” Steve mutters, a slightly bitter smile twisting his lips.

While the details are hashed out, Nick and Dr Banner speaking in low voice, Nat comes over to sit on the edge of his bed.

“Bummer that they can’t just scrape those growth things off, huh?”

“Like mold on bread,” Steve agrees.

“That’s gross,” Nat tells him with a disgusted wrinkle of her nose. But the laughter in her expression drains away after a moment. “I really wish you didn’t have to stay here.”

“Me too.” It’s an effort to smile, but Steve manages, hating to see Natasha so worried. “But who knows, maybe I’ll get a hot nurse, an’ they can give me a sponge bath.”

“Well, shit,” she drawls. “Maybe I should see what I can do to land myself in here.”

Their sniggers are cut short when Dr Banner clears his throat.

“I’m going to be on my way, but I’ll see you tomorrow morning, okay? We’ll run some tests, and maybe bring in a couple of specialists to talk things over.”

“And I’m gonna be there for that,” Nick inserts.

“Of course.” Dr Banner smiles politely, inclining his head in Nat’s direction before taking his leave.

It isn’t long before a team of orderlies arrive in Steve’s room.

“Mr Rogers? We’re going to move you to Cardiology now.”

“Yeah, sure,” Steve says faintly. He looks over at Nick and Natasha, and some childish impulse makes him want to ask them not to leave him here. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow,” he says instead.

“As soon as I finish with work, I’ll be over here,” Nat promises. “And I’m gonna stop over at your place tonight, grab you a couple of things.”

“Maybe bring my computer, I can do some work--”

“No!” Nick and Natasha say loudly, almost in unison.

“For God’s sake,” Nick growls. “You’re in hospital. Take a break. Sleep.”

“I’ll sleep when I’m dead.”

The words slip free before Steve can think better of them; a tense silence follows. He feels like a complete heel when he sees the look on Natasha’s face.

“Sorry,” he mumbles.

Guilt niggles at him as he’s wheeled up to the cardiology department.

_You an’ your big mouth, Rogers._

_\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

**Two Days Later**

“Maybe you should let someone else do this,” Luke says, brow furrowed in concern.

Standing in the middle of Mr Papadopoulos’ apartment, it’s all Bucky can do to hold it together. It doesn’t feel right, being here without the old man. Bucky keeps expecting to hear his voice calling from down the hallway, or to see him shuffling into the living room, convinced that the NSA is spying on him.

He’s distantly aware of the tightness in his throat, the way his eyes burn.

_It’s the dust. Allergies._

“James.” He feels a warm hand on his shoulder, and he jerks away from it. Glancing over, Bucky sees Luke watching him carefully. “There is no reason for you to put yourself through this. At least, not so soon.”

“This stuff isn’t gonna pack itself,” Bucky mutters. “An’ the sooner I get this shit done, the sooner I can…”

His voice falters there; Bucky doesn’t know what the hell he’s gonna do after this. Taking a deep breath, he struggles to pull himself together before moving on through the apartment.

_ Keep movin’, Barnes. _

“Alright,” Luke agrees. “But if you wish to take a break, tell me. We will take a walk, maybe.”

“Yeah. Yeah, thanks. And, uh…” Bucky brushes his hair out of his face. “Thanks. For doing this, I mean. 

“Of course, James. This is what friends do for each other.”

_It’s like the asshole’s_ tryin’ _to get me to break down._

Still, Bucky’s grateful that Luke’s here. He doesn’t know if he’d be able to do this by himself.

Hours pass, and they don’t talk much. Piles form on the floor: old clothes, random junk, books, and photos. The few valuables Mr Papadopoulos had kept are relocated to the kitchen; Bucky will probably end up renting a storage locker until after the estate is settled.

Bucky’s halfway through clearing out the old man’s room when he finds the worry beads. He stares at them for a few seconds before he hears a strange sound; it’s loud, really loud.

And every time he hears the noise, a wrenching sensation in his chest accompanies it.

 _Oh. It’s me._  

Humiliation swamps him because he’d been trying _so damn hard_ to keep it together, white knuckling it; to lose it over a bunch of fucking _beads_ is ridiculous. Bucky presses the back of his right hand to his mouth, biting into the flesh to muffle the sound of his sobs.

Shuddering, loss crashing through him, Bucky is so lost in his head that he barely notices Luke entering the room. It’s only when a strong pair of arms come around him, drawing him close, that Bucky realises that Luke is there.

The normal defensiveness that Bucky usually clings to is gone. All he can do is hold onto his friend, and weep.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**Eight Years Ago**

It’s dark, and Bucky’s well on his way to being totally wasted. Same shit, different day. Seated in a dingy bar, Bucky stares into his glass, tilting it this way and that.

Years have passed since his accident, and Bucky’s gotten used to the stump where his arm used to be. Well, maybe not _used_ to it. He doesn’t think that’ll ever happen.

But he’s learned to accept it.

That isn’t why Bucky spends most of his nights in this shit hole. No, he thinks he’d have been able to deal with the whole gimp thing, if he’d had his family to back him up. And they probably would’ve been able to deal with it. Winifred had assured him they could.

Only problem was, his father hadn’t been able to see past the whole queer thing.

The strain of being home after… _the incident_ … had been harder to deal with than figuring out how to perform everyday activities with only the use of one arm. George Barnes was a military man, had served in Beirut for a while, narrowly avoiding being caught in the suicide bombing that had ended up killing over two hundred marines, including his best friend.

Ma used to tell him that George had never been the same after that. He’d become harder, according to Winifred. Less likely to smile or laugh.

Bucky still doesn’t quite understand what that has to do with George’s accepting the fact that his son likes cock, but whatever.

He won’t beg his father to accept him.

Some nights, Bucky wonders if he’d given up too easy. Could’ve tried harder, should’ve tried harder.

Didn’t.

Self-pity and alcohol seem to make excellent bedfellows, egging each other on to form a caustic mix in the pit of his stomach. When the shouting starts, it comes as something of a relief, giving Bucky something else to focus on.

“... caught one’a ya rat bastard customers pissin’ ‘gainst the wall’a my apartment!” an old man is raging. He looks to be in his late fifties, but he’s still fit and strong; his face is red, and his fists are clenched.

The bartender, a grizzled guy with fading tattoos and a handlebar mustache sneers at him.

“I look like I give a shit, old timer? Get the fuck outta here.”

Few people dare argue with Manny, but the old guy doesn't back down. Puffing out his chest, the old man returns his glare with interest. Then, to Bucky’s utter disbelief, he reaches down to unbutton the fly of his pants.

“What the fuck you doin’?” Manny demands. He's already moving around the bar towards the old guy.

“Just wonderin’ how you like it when someone treats your place like a goddamn toilet.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Bucky mutters. For some reason, he gets to his feet, ready to intervene between a homicidal looking Manny and the old man. Bucky isn't entirely sure what he's going to do--he's only got one goddamn arm--but it doesn't seem right to let Manny have at the old bastard without any backup.

Especially considering what happens next.

Because the old guy… pisses on Manny.

Chaos erupts. Surging forward, Bucky stumbles over to jerk the old guy out of arm’s reach of the enraged bartender.

“You miserable motherfucker!” Manny bellows. “I'll beat the shit outta ya!”

“Like ta see ya try, you little--”

“Alright, let's go,” Bucky says loudly. It still doesn't make sense why he's even getting involved, but some instinct has him pulling the old guy away. “C’mon, grandpa, let's get you outta here.”

“Who the fuck--” The old man reluctantly allows Bucky to pull him back, out of the bar. “You keep these low lives ‘way from my property, ya hear me!”

More shouting that makes Bucky’s ears ring; Manny yells that he never wants to see either of them in his bar again-- _Me? What'd I do?_ \--and then they're out on the sidewalk.

_Didn't even get to finish my goddamn drink._

And instead of any kind of fucking gratitude, the old asshole just turns around and glares at him.

“Who the fuck’re you?”

“Bucky Barnes,” he replies, too bemused to do anything but answer.

“That’s a stupid fuckin’ name.”

His jaw drops, and for a second all he can do is gape at the old man.

“Seriously?” he asks incredulously. “After the shit you just pulled?” For some reason, Bucky’s gaze dips, and he sees that the old guy’s junk is still hanging out. “Jesus Christ.” He blanches, wishing he could pour bleach in his eyes. “Put your dick back in your pants, man. No one wants to see that shit.”

The old guy lets out a huff, reaching back to tuck himself back in.

“I’m Ambrose Papadopoulos,” he says. Sticking his hand out, he waits expectantly for Bucky to shake it.

 _If this guy thinks I’m gonna touch_ that _hand, he’s out of his fuckin’ mind._

The message gets through after a few seconds, and Papadopoulos lets out an irritated sigh.

“C’mon, kid, lemme get you a drink,” he says.

“We just got kicked out,” Bucky points out. He wonders if the old guy’s senile or something.

“Pfft,” Papadopoulos scoffs, waving a hand in the direction of the bar. “Got better stuff at my place than the swill they serve in this shit hole.”

Bucky stares at the other man, weighing his options, before shrugging. What the hell, right? He could use another drink.

They cross the road over to a shabby looking two story building. There are black trash bags just outside, and a weird smell floats seems to permeate the air.

_Kinda rich for Papadopoulos to be callin’ someone else’s place a dump._

Reaching the top floor, Bucky waits while Ambrose unlocks the door. He spots a cockroach crawling passed, and spends a moment watching it go. There was a time, not so long ago, where the sight of one of those little fuckers would’ve made him cringe.

Now, all it really does is make him wonder where the rest of its family is hiding.

He steps inside the apartment behind Mr Papadopoulos, taking a moment to look around the entrance. It’s cleaner than he would’ve expected; there’s some clutter scattered around here and there, but no actual mess.

“Nice place you got,” Bucky tells him, moving towards the living room. He drops down onto the couch without invitation.

Mr Papadopoulos doesn’t answer. The sound of chinking glass drifts over to him, soon followed by the sound of boiling water.

“How d’you take your coffee?”

_Coffee? Who said anything about coffee?_

“Thought you were gettin’ me a drink,” Bucky calls back dubiously.

“‘M sorry, you some kinda weirdo that snorts coffee, or somethin’?”

“Real funny, asshole,” Bucky mutters. “Look, I thought you said--”

“Well, ya thought wrong, kiddo.” Mr Papadopoulos emerges from the kitchen bearing two chipped mugs. “Made it black, no sugar,” he tells Bucky as he sets them on the coffee table.

For the third time that night, Bucky finds himself gaping at the old man.

_It’s like I’m in the goddamn twilight zone._

But before Bucky can consider leaving, Mr Papadopoulos speaks.

“What’s a nice kid like you doin’ in a shitty place like this?”

“You tryin’ to hit on me, old man?”

He’d been hoping for some kind of reaction, an indignant scoff, an angry demand for Bucky to get the hell out. What he gets instead makes him uncomfortable.

“Whatever it is you’re looking for, you’re not gonna find it at the bottom of the bottle.”

“Fuck off,” Bucky flares up immediately. “I already got a father, okay? I don’t need some fuckin’ stranger to tell me--”

“That you drink too much?” the old man asks quietly. “Not tryin’ to get in your business. Just figure we all need a little help sometimes.”

There’s no judgement in his tone, which is the only reason why Bucky doesn’t storm out. Still, he’s wary. It’s been awhile since anyone gave a crap about him.

“How d’you know? ‘Bout the drinkin’, I mean?”

“I’m old,” Mr Papadopoulos says simply. “Not much else to do but people watch. I got a decent view of that dump ‘cross the road. That’s how I know ‘bout those fuckers who piss against my wall.” The last bit is said with a scowl.

“What makes you think I’m not one of those fuckers?”

“Pfft.” Mr Papadopoulos rolls his eyes at that. “I’m an excellent judge of character. You wouldn’t do nasty shit like that.”

It’s not exactly a ringing endorsement--because seriously, who the hell even _does_ that?--but it’s oddly comforting. For the first time since he left home, Bucky doesn’t feel like he has to keep his guard up.

Maybe, just _maybe_ , he’s made a friend.


	5. Chapter 5

**Present Day**

_ The boredom is gonna kill me before the heart disease. _

But Steve knows better than to say that out loud. Again. For what has to be the thirty seventh time.

Because then Nat would probably end up smothering him with a pillow.

“Feel like tellin’ me what’s goin’ on at work?” he asks, glancing over at where Nat is sitting. She’s taken over most of his room, and has sheets of paper and open files lying everywhere Steve looks. 

“Nothing interesting, I promise.” Natasha doesn’t even look up from what she’s reading.

Silence descends again. It’s tempting to start banging his head against the wall behind him. He sighs. 

Again.

“Am I going to have to start weighing things down?” Natasha asks sardonically. Her lips have turned up in the faintest hint of a smile, and Steve kind of wants to strangle her.

“You’re not funny.”

“I’m hilarious.”

Neither of them says anything for another few minutes. Steve feels the restlessness rising up until he thinks he’s going to just start screaming. He opens his mouth to say something--what, he has no idea--when Nat cuts him off.

“If you tell me you’re bored one more time, I’m gonna tell Nick that you were the one who started that fight where I broke my wrist.”

“We were kids,” Steve protests.

“Kids who had to call Nick back from his honeymoon with Phil because you’d landed me in hospital.”

“Nobody said you had to hit him.”

“Jerk was messing with my little brother. Of course I had to hit him.”

They spend the next few minutes alternating between bickering and laughing about the look on the bully’s face when Natasha, a full head shorter than him, had kicked his ass.

He finds himself smiling at the memory. It’s just one of a long list of times where Nat had stepped in to take care of him, whether it was to keep bullies off his back, or to sit with him while illness had him stuck in bed.

Natasha’s always been there.

“Did I ever say thank you?” Steve asks abruptly.

“For what?” She’s gone back to her papers, and Steve can tell he’s only got half of her attention.

“For everything.”

The sincerity in his voice has Natasha looking up sharply. 

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Whatever it is that you’re doing.” Nat is glaring at him now, expression fierce. “You’re going to be fine, so you cut the shit. Okay?”

More angry than the situation warrants--at least, in Steve’s opinion--Natasha gets to her feet, and storms out.

_ What the hell just happened? _

_\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

**Twenty Years Ago**

“So, uh, Nat. There’s somethin’ I wanna talk to you about.”

Natasha’s on the living room floor when Nick comes home from work, and seated behind her is Scott, her au pair. He thinks she doesn’t know he’s tearing up from watching the  _ Lion King _ . Again.

Instead of glancing over at Scott--her last foster dad had told her it was important not to make men feel unmanly--Natasha looks up from her colouring in book. It’s something she’s only just started doing, ‘cause Nick thinks she needs to do more kid stuff. It’s not  _ too  _ boring. Scott says she should use more colour, but she’s not sure she trusts him.

After all, he’d drawn her a pink elephant just yesterday. 

But Natasha’s been living here with Nick for almost six months, and she likes it okay. It’s much better than the last place she’d been, with too many kids crammed into too tight a space.

Still, there are things that Nat’s learned to be wary of while living with Nick. The words, “ _ We need to talk _ ,” don’t usually mean anything good.

Or, at least, not anything interesting.

“Okay,” she says reluctantly.

“Scott, you mind givin’ us the room for a minute?”

Talking in private meant that it was  _ serious _ .

_ Ugh. _

It takes Scott a second, since he’s busy wiping his eyes with his sleeve, mumbling something about allergies--Nick just raises his eyebrows--but he finally leaves the room. Nick waits until they can hear Scott moving around in the kitchen before speaking. 

“Come sit over here, there’s somethin’ I wanna run by you,” he says from over where he’s taken a seat on the couch. 

“Are we getting a dog?” she asks, suddenly excited. Leaping up from the floor, she sits beside him, still careful not to sit too close. 

“Uh… close.” Nick looks down for a second before continuing. “How ‘bout a brother instead?”

“A brother?” That doesn’t sound as good as a dog.

“Yeah. See, I talked to a real nice lady this morning. Her name’s Maria. She’s a nurse at the children’s hospital, and she mentioned that there’s a boy who might need our help. His name is Steve.”

Natasha shifts a little on the couch. She doesn’t think she wants a brother, but it wouldn’t be right to leave someone in trouble.

“How come he’s in the hospital?” she asks grudgingly.

“Well, his foster dad… He’s an idiot,” Nick tells her. “Steve got real sick, and nobody noticed. It was only after he fainted at school that anyone realised he wasn’t doin’ too good.”

“Is he okay now?”

“He could be better,” Nick admits. “Maria thinks it might be a good idea if he came to stay with us for a little while. What d’you think?”

“Does it matter?” Natasha counters. “It’s your house.”

“No, it  _ was _ my house. Now, it’s  _ our  _ house. If you’re uncomfortable with the idea, it won’t happen. We can forget all about it, go have dinner, and you can tell me ‘bout your day. Easy as that.”

It’s a nice idea. But…

_ Where was this Steve kid getting his dinner? _

For a long minute, Natasha doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t like strangers. It’d taken awhile for her to get used Nick and Scott and her teachers at school. What if this boy’s weird, or he talks with his mouth full?

But what if he gets sent to a really terrible foster home and gets sick again?

“I guess he can come stay,” she mumbles eventually.

Natasha looks up to find Nick smiling at her.

_ Ugh. _

_\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

She’d never tell anyone this--would bite the head off anyone who suggested it--but Natasha was nervous.

_ Maybe this isn’t the best idea. _

_ Kinda late now _ .

Pacing back and forth in her bedroom, Natasha twists her fingers in the pretty green shirt Nick had gotten her last week. All this pretty stuff that she wouldn’t have been able to even  _ touch _ if Nick hadn’t found her.

_ What if Nick likes Steve better? _

Scared and miserable, Natasha just wants to climb into bed, and burrow under the covers. She can feel tears gathering at the corners of her eyes; her stomach is twisting anxiously.

“Alright, kiddo, they’re gonna be here in--” Scott stops talking when he sees Natasha standing in the middle of her room. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?” he asks immediately, coming to kneel in front of her, always sure to give her her space.

Nat doesn’t want to answer; she shakes her head, and looks down at the soft pink carpet beneath her feet instead.

They’re quiet for a few seconds before Scott gets to his feet. He leaves the room, and Natasha wants to cry some more at the abandonment. But Scott hasn’t left her because she’s stupid and crying; instead, he comes back with a wad of toilet paper in his hand.

Crouching down, just a little closer this time, Scott reaches out to awkwardly dab at her cheeks.

“Whatever it is, you can tell me,” he says gently.

“It’s dumb.”

“Okay, coupl’a things.” Scott’s voice is unusually stern; it makes Nat look up at him. “First of all, you’re allowed to cry. Okay? Whenever you want. It doesn’t make you weak or a baby. Secondly, nothin’ that makes you cry is stupid. Ever. And if anyone tells you otherwise, you point me in their direction. I’ll kick--” He pauses, reconsiders his words, and then continues, “I’ll give ‘em a stern talkin’ to.”

This is a level of kindness Natasha isn’t used to. Nick’s a nice guy, and he’s trying real hard to get the hang of this whole dad thing… but he’s a grown up. And Scott, well… he’s almost like a kid himself. 

Without thinking, Nat flings herself at him for a hug.

“Whoa. Okay, okay.” Scott pats her back soothingly. “It’s alright, everything’s alright. Whatever it is that’s got you upset, we’ll deal with it. Okay?”

Nodding, Nat takes a step away from him, wiping at her eyes with her sleeve. 

“C’mon, now. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“What if… What if Nick likes Steve better’n me?” she mumbles, not meeting Scott’s gaze.

“Oh, honey.” Scott pulls her in for another hug. “I  _ promise _ you, that’s never gonna happen. Ever.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I’m gonna let you in on a little secret, okay?” He waits until she nods her agreement. “Nick Fury thinks the sun rises and sets with you.  _ Nothing _ is gonna change that.” 

The sound of the front door opening brings the conversation to an end.

“Natasha? Scott? We’re here!” Nick calls from downstairs.

“Just a sec!” Scott looks over at Nat, pausing for a moment before asking softly, “You ready to head down?”

She doesn’t give herself a chance to think about it. Instead, she squares her shoulders and marches toward her bedroom door. 

_ I got this. _

Hopping down the stairs, Natasha is sure to smile as Nick comes into view. And then, with a deep breath, she looks over at the small figure standing beside Nick.

The first thing Natasha notices is that Steve is  _ really _ skinny. And pale. With his blond hair, he looks kinda like a lemon lollipop. Nat likes lemon lollipops. And that’s what decides it.

How bad can he be if he looks like her favourite candy?

A few seconds pass, while Nick allows her and Steve to size each other up. Finally, he clears his throat, breaking the silence.

“Natasha, this is Steve. Steve, this is my daughter, Natasha.”

While Natasha is content to just sort of wave at the boy from where she’s standing, Steve surprises her. Shuffling towards Nat, he stops just in front of her, and then sticks out his hand. Somehow, even his fingers are scrawny. From over Steve’s shoulder, she can see Nick smiling.

“It’s nice to meet ya,” Steve says with a hesitant smile. It’s a nice smile, set in a nice face. He doesn’t look like they type of person to chew with his mouth full. 

“Nice to meet you too, Steve.”

And then, just like that, it seemed like Natasha had a brother.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**Present Day**

“I’m so glad you agreed to do this, James,” Peggy enthuses on their way to the hospital. “Really, I’m sure you’ll be more than happy. The cardiology department is full of delightful people.”

“I’m sure it’ll be great,” Bucky mutters back. Peggy seems undeterred by his lack of enthusiasm. 

“And I  _ cannot wait _ for you to meet James Rhodes. He’s the chief nurse, truly brilliant and--”

“Peg,” Bucky cuts in. “Please, could you just…. I’m sorry, but I’m just--I’m kinda freakin’ out.”

“And here I am, nattering on. Sorry. It’s just that I think this is a really good thing for you. Especially after…”

“Yeah. After,” Bucky sighs.

Neither of them speaks for the rest of the trip, with the only sound being the tinny music coming from the radio. It’s some obnoxiously peppy song that makes Bucky grind his teeth. Nerves shredded, he leans forward to turn the radio off.

From the corner of his eye, he sees Peg wince.

_ You’re bein’ an ass _ , he tells himself.  _ She’s just tryin’ to help. _

“‘M sorry,” he mutters.

“It’s alright.” She takes one hand off the steering wheel to give him a reassuring pat on the knee. “I know it can be quite stressful, starting a new job. Especially when you enjoyed your old one so much.”

The truth was, taking care of Mr Papadopoulos had never  _ felt _ like a job. The old man had been Bucky’s friend, the first person since Bucky had left home who’d actually given a shit about him. And while Bucky knows he has Luke now, and Peggy and Sam…

He misses Mr Papadopoulos so much that it almost hurts to breathe.

“Y’know you don’t need to come in with me, right?” Bucky says once they’ve reached the hospital. He feels a little like a kid who’s mom wants to walk him to class on his his first day at a new school. It does nothing to ease his anxiety.

“Oh, you think I’m here for you?” Peggy says, eyebrows raised. She puts the car in park before looking over at him. “I actually have an appointment.”

“Really?” Bucky doesn’t believe it for a second. “What for? You sick?”

“Lady problems, dear.” 

Bucky is immediately sorry he asked, which makes him suspicious. Peggy’s not above throwing that kind of thing out there to end a conversation she doesn’t feel like having. 

_ Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they aren’t after you _ .

But whatever. If he spends any more time arguing the point, he’s gonna be late, and that is  _ not _ how he wants to start his new job.

They hurry across the lot to the hospital entrance; Peggy easily keeps up with him, even though his legs are substantially longer than hers. Bucky’s convinced she runs on sheer willpower.

Reaching the front desk, they’re met by a pretty nurse with a bright smile. The tag on her uniform says  _ Martinelli _ .

“Hi there. Can I help you with something?”

It doesn’t escape Bucky’s notice that she’s looking at Peggy when she asks.

“Yes, we’re here to see James Rhodes,” Peg replies, returning her smile.

“ _ I’m _ here to see Mr Rhodes,” Bucky corrects. “My friend here is looking for gynaecology.” 

That earns him a sharp elbow in the ribs from Peg, and an unimpressed once over from nurse Martinelli.

Presenting her shoulder to Bucky, the nurse looks at Peggy when answering.

“He’s up in cardiology, third floor.”

“Right, thank you.” As they turn away, Bucky swears he sees nurse Martinelli wink at Peg.

“Can’t take you anywhere,” he mutters. 

“It’s the accent.” Peggy sounds incredibly smug, and he can’t help but roll his eyes.

Still, Bucky’s glad she’s with him, even though he’ll never tell her. But, if the gentle squeeze she gives his metal hand is any indication, Peg’s already got him figured out.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

James Rhodes isn’t what Bucky would’ve expected. A wiry man with sharp eyes and dark skin, Rhodes exudes energy and competence. Even though he’s only been in the cardiology ward for a few minutes, Bucky can tell it’s a tightly run department.

“We’re happy to have you onboard,” Rhodes says once he and Peggy have exchanged greetings. “An extra pair of capable hands are always appreciated.”

“Thanks for takin’ me on.”

“Well, I think that’s my cue to get going then,” Peggy says, apparently satisfied that things are moving along. “I’ll be seeing you.”

“What about your appointment?” Bucky asks dryly.

“What appointment?” Peggy widens her eyes innocently, confirming Bucky’s suspicions about her actual reason for coming here. He can’t decide if he’s more touched or annoyed.

She disappears into the elevator, giving him a cheery wave as the doors slide closed. Bucky turns back to Rhodes to find the other man watching him intently. 

“Things are a little different in here, compared to being a live-in. You sure you up to it?” Rhodes asks.

“Bring it on,” Bucky says, looking forward to the challenge. 

Looking forward to the distraction.

“Alright then,” Rhodes says. “Let’s get you started.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_ Silence is golden _ . That’s the old adage, right?

Well, whoever came up with it can kiss Steve Rogers’ ass.

He feels like he’s going to go  _ insane _ . Without the usual hubbub of the office--there’s usually some shouting going on due to one of Stark’s shenanigans--people stopping by in his office for a minute or two just to chat, the hospital noises that surround him are jangling on his nerves.

Natasha hadn’t even brought him his cell phone.

“No work, no stress,” she’d told him the day before. “You need to give your heart a break.”

“Sending texts isn’t gonna kill me,” Steve had argued back. “Neither will answerin’ a couple emails.”

“You’re probably right,” Natasha agreed. “But you know what will kill you?” She’d smiled at him sweetly. “Nick.”

That had been a fair point, but Steve doesn’t have to be happy about it. 

Left alone with a friggin’ book of crossword puzzles and his sketchbook and pencils--which he hadn’t touched in too long to think about--he spends about twenty minutes scowling around his room.

Work had taken up a lot of his time, these last few years. Steve doesn’t know how it’d happened; one day he’d looked up and realised that his whole life revolved around Fury & Stark. And if he wasn’t at work, he was at home or in the goddamn hospital.

Strangely cautious, Steve draws his pencils closer. They feel strange between his fingers for a moment before familiarity sweeps over him.

_ I’ve _ missed _ this. _

It’s kind of a revelation. 

But he doesn't get the chance to really enjoy it, because a moment later a deep voice is coming from the doorway. 

“Mr Rogers, good morning.”

Looking up, startled by the sudden intrusion, Steve sees James Rhodes standing there, an unfamiliar man at his side. He's got dark hair and broad shoulders, but it's his eyes that catch Steve’s attention. Steve sits up a little straighter in the bed. 

“Sorry for interrupting,” Rhodes says politely. “I'm just going around introducing our newest member of staff. Don't want you getting freaked out when some stranger comes out to check your vitals.”

“Oh, uh, thanks.” Steve wishes he was wearing more than his hospital gown. The stupid thing is paper thin, and it makes him feel intensely vulnerable under the new guy’s scrutiny. 

“Bucky Barnes,” the stranger introduces himself. He takes a step forward, big hand extended for Steve to shake. 

_ Easy, Rogers _ , he thinks as he cautiously accepts Barnes’ hand. Even with him standing closer, Steve still can't quite make out the colour of his eyes; they appear to be somewhere between an icy blue and a pale grey. 

_ Wow.  _

It takes him a second to realise that he hasn't actually introduced himself. 

“Hi. I'm, uh, I’m Steve. Rogers.”

“Good to meet ya, Steve.” Barnes smiles and it makes his eyes crease at the corners. It’s enough to make Steve’s heart lurch. 

_ Oh, God, I hope that doesn't show up on the monitor.   _

“Alright, we’ll be seeing you later.” Departing with a nod, Rhodes leaves the room, followed closely by Barnes. The latter looks back with another slight smile before heading out the door. 

Steve waits until they’re both gone before looking up at the ceiling.

“I was kidding ‘bout the hot nurse,” he mutters, on the off chance anyone’s listening. Although he’s sure that Natasha is gonna get a kick out of this. God knows she’s never passed up on embarrassing him whenever the opportunity presented itself.

_ Ugh. _

_ And this is why I hate hospitals. _


	6. Chapter 6

The first day is always the hardest. It was something his mom used to tell him before his first day of school, first time he got behind the wheel of a car, the night of his first date.

_Least Ma knew what she was talkin’ ‘bout on that front._

In truth, Bucky isn’t too sure how long this gig is going to last. But it’s something to pass the time and--more importantly--pay the rent. He can only slum around Luke’s apartment for so long before he loses respect for himself.

Bucky’s feet are aching by now, and he realises with a kind of horror that he might actually have to buy himself a pair of Crocs at some point.

It’s too awful to even think about, so he focuses instead on getting dinner served.

From what Rhodes had told him, the evening meal can be stressful. Visitors have been chivvied out, and the nursing staff is bustling around, trying to make patients comfortable, their voices creating a buzz in the ward.

He's not sure he likes all the noise. It's a jarring contrast from what Bucky had gotten used to with Mr Papadopoulos. Before, where he'd only heard one ill tempered voice, there are now more than a dozen.

With a deep breath, Bucky begins stacking the trays of food on the cart, taking note of the small, neat labels designating which tray goes to which patient. It occurs to him that he's going to have to get used this, used to juggling all the different needs of the various people in this ward.

_You can do this._

And since fake it ‘til you make it has been something Bucky’s excelled at for years, so he forces a smile as he goes through the ward. It’s not so bad. He calls out people’s names, and hands their trays over, pausing to maybe straighten a pillow or something.

_Easy as pie._

Bucky knows he has a habit of sometimes making a big deal out of nothing, and this seems to be one of those times. He can feel himself relaxing now, scooting the cart passed colleagues and patients alike.

He gets to the last room, and is just about to step inside when he hears a loud yelp.

_Shit._

Abandoning the cart, Bucky shoves the door open… only to immediately freeze as soon as he sees what’s happening.

The frail looking blond guy Bucky had met earlier that day is wrestling with a gorgeous redhead for--Bucky squints in disbelief--the TV’s remote. Bucky doesn’t know what’s more surprising, that Steve still has a visitor, or that he’s actually strong enough to be twisting someone’s arm like that.

_What the hell?_

“Uh, hello?” Bucky knows he sounds like a fucking idiot, but he’s not entirely sure how to respond to this.

“ _Fuck_ _._ ”

Steve all but pushes the woman off the narrow bed, and immediately sits upright; a bright red flush is spreading across his pale skin. The wide-eyed alarm almost makes Bucky smile.

“We weren’t doin’ anything,” Steve says loudly.

Over on the other side of the bed, the top of the woman’s head appears. Her loud sigh seems to echo in the small room.

“I’m so telling Nick,” she mutters. Movements quick and fluid, the woman gets to her feet, hands resting on her hips as she gives Bucky an assessing look. One perfectly arched brow lifts as she takes his measure.

It’s all Bucky can do not to fidget.

“And you are?” the woman prompts after a moment of uncomfortable silence.

“He’s a nurse,” Rogers says before Bucky can reply, aiming a glare in the redhead’s direction. To Bucky, he adds, somewhat belatedly, “Hi.”

 _This is so weird_.

“Sorry, I was just--” _Wait, why am I apologising?_ He hastily backtracks. “Visiting hours are over. You’re gonna have to come back tomorrow.”

Bucky winces when, instead of getting huffy, the woman whips out the Bambi eyes. It’s a disconcerting change from the shrewdness he’d seen just a moment ago.

“Do I have to?” she asks plaintive, batting her eyelashes. “My brother’s really sick, and I’m so worried--”

A disbelieving scoff cuts her words off.

“Layin’ it on a little thick, don’tcha think?” Steve asks with a wry grin.

And just like that, the wounded female impression is gone. She turns to Steve with an unimpressed look.

“I had him on the ropes.”

 _This is so confusing_.

“Look, I hate to interrupt this--Whatever this is,” Bucky says, shaking his head. “But visiting hours really are over. And I still need to bring Mr Rogers his dinner. So could you maybe… go?”

It’s definitely _not_ supposed to come out as a question. Judging by the smirk that suddenly touches her full lips, the woman knows it too.

“Fine.” Tossing the remote back on the bed--she’d apparently won the wrestling match--the woman turns back to Steve. “I’ll see you tomorrow, alright?” A quick kiss to the slight man’s cheek before she picks up her purse and moves towards the door.

Bucky does his best not to scramble out of her way as she passes.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” Steve says once the sharp clack of the redhead’s high heels has faded down the hallway. “She likes to push her luck when it comes to visiting hours.”

“I get it,” Bucky says with a shrug, remembering when Becca had done the same while he’d been in hospital. She’d always left the ward with tears brimming in her eyes.

He doesn’t want to think about Becca right now.

“So, uh…” Bucky struggles for a moment before remembering why he was there in the first place. “Your dinner. Shit. It’s probably gone cold by now.”

Without waiting for Steve to reply, Bucky darts out of the room and back into the hallway where the food cart is thankfully still waiting. He shudders to think of how Rhodes would react to finding the damn thing stranded out there.

Hurriedly wheeling the cart into Steve’s room, he finds that the other man’s body language has shifted. Where before he’d seemed relaxed, at ease, now he’s hunched in on himself slightly.

“Everything okay?” Bucky asks quietly. His eyes check Steve’s pallor, noting that he’s pale, but no more so than he was earlier. The abrupt change in demeanor leaves him feeling off balance.

It’s going to take him a while to get used to dealing with new personalities after spending so much time with only one.

“Fine,” Steve answers briskly. If possible, his shoulders seem to get even more tense.

_What just happened?_

For just a moment, Bucky doesn’t know what to do. He hurriedly shakes it off, though, and places Steve’s tray of food on the hospital bed table.

“Thanks,” he says, now staring determinedly at the TV screen rather than looking at Bucky.

 _Shake it off_ , Bucky reminds himself. It shouldn't matter, and besides, he'd dealt with far worse while taking care of Mr Papadopoulos. This sudden flip in personality is nothing.

Still, Bucky can't help being stung.

“Guess I'll see you later,” he mutters. Steve merely gives a noncommittal grunt in return.

Once Bucky’s safely outside the room, he spares a minute to wonder what he's done wrong. It was never something he'd had to worry about before; usually, if Papa was pissed, he had fucking let Bucky know about it. Anxiety tightens his chest a fraction, and Bucky knows that this is gonna be bugging him for the rest of his shift.

Shit.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_You're an asshole._

_Tell me something I don't know._

_You're a_ giant _asshole._

Pushing his food around his plate listlessly, Steve is trying his best to ignore the guilt that's weighing on him, making it impossible to eat.

_That's what happens when you act like a dick to a nice guy on his first day of work._

His dinner is completely unappealing, and he does his best to force something down. Seeking a distraction, but completely uninterested in what's on TV-- _Grey’s Anatomy_ reruns--Steve wishes he had his phone. Natasha is convinced he'll do work when he was supposed to be resting, and still refuses to bring it.

_Sisters are the worst._

He gives up on the food a few minutes later, even though he knows that whoever comes to pick it up is going to give him hell for it. Steve’s already too thin, skipping meals often because he has no appetite. But now, it’s not really something he can afford to do, especially if it’s decided that he’s gonna need surgery.

_Ugh._

_I really don’t wanna think about that._

Getting out of the bed, and hating how friggin’ wobbly his legs feel, Steve decides to take a walk. Because he’s a goddamn grown up, and if he has to sit in that godawful bed for another _second_ he’s gonna scream.

It’s more difficult than it should be to get into the sweatpants Natasha had brought him--because she’s not so cruel as to leave him with his ass swinging in the breeze--and then he’s on his way.

Steve chose a good time to make a break for it. The nurses aren’t paying too much attention to what’s going around them just then, are instead clustered around the front desk. A couple of them are shifting from one foot to the other, others leaning their elbows on the desk. Their expressions are animated, though, for all that their posture shouts exhaustion.

He doesn’t see Bucky with them.

_Shit._

The guilt that he’d briefly shelved comes back to kick him in the ass. Steve tries not to feel sorry for himself--neither Nick nor Natasha had allowed him to wallow when he was a kid--but sometimes…

 _Man, sometimes it’s_ hard.

Because there’s no dignity in being sick. Strangers see you at your worst, heaving for air while trying to get dressed, passing out for no apparent reason, helping you walk to the goddamn john because you’re too weak to get there on your own. All that’s humiliating enough, and Steve’s learned to deal with it. Sort of.

But for a few fleeting seconds, Steve had forgotten that he was talking to a nurse. It was just him having a conversation with a really hot guy.

Until the unwelcome reality of where he was had ruined the moment.

Disgusted with himself, Steve manages to shuffle passed the nursing staff to the door leading to stairwell. The hinges are stiff, and for a moment, Steve thinks he's going to end up embarrassing himself by not being able to get the damn thing open.

_Please, if there is a God…_

Thankfully, the door swings open with a slight creak, allowing Steve to slip through. He allows the door to close with a soft thud.

A sigh of relief escapes his throat.

_Okay. Now what?_

_You should turn your ass around, and get back to bed_.

It's the sensible option; he isn't in any condition to be wandering around the hospital. But the prospect of just languishing in that sterile white room is enough to make his stomach twist.

Deciding to go up--it'll be easier to come back down than go back up once he's tired, Steve reasons--he focuses on putting one foot in front of the other. His muscles begin burning before long, but he ignores it.

_Deep breath in, deep breath out._

But it turns out that the whole deep breathing thing is easier said than done. With each step he takes, his legs seem to be getting progressively heavier.

_Just go back to bed._

That would be the smart thing to do. Take a minute to catch his breath, and then head right back downstairs to his room.

Steve’s not as smart as ought to be.

_Make it to a hundred steps, then ya turn around. C’mon, Rogers, you can do it._

Jaw clenched stubbornly, Steve keeps climbing. This is dumb, he _knows_ it’s dumb… but it’s also really friggin’ important. Ridiculously, stupidly, moronically important.

_I just need to know I can do this._

He’s on step seventy eight when he runs out of steam. Legs and lungs aching, Steve has to clutch onto the balustrade to keep from toppling over.

_Oh, yeah, this was a bad idea._

_Bad, bad, bad idea._

The edges of his vision start to go dark, and that’s when Steve knows he’s in _deep shit_.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Are you ever gonna come to bed?”

It’s a softly spoken question, but it’s still enough to make Nick start in surprise. Looking up from his computer and the mounds of paper stacked in front of him, he sees Phil standing in the doorway to his study. He’s wearing the most absurd pajamas, plaid with the occasional cow dotted across the material.

Nick owns a matching set.

Managing a smile, he slowly closes his laptop. The truth is, it isn't exactly _work_ he's looking at, just more research on how to get Steve better.

It's slow going.

“Just keep hopin’ I'll find somethin’,” Nick sighs. “I want him on the donor list, but I don't know if his situation’s _bad enough_ \--” The words leave a sour taste in his mouth. “--to warrant even bein’ on the list.”

Sympathy edges Phil’s expression, and he moves around the desk to put a gentle hand on Nick’s shoulder. He takes comfort in the light contact, and the tension in his chest eases slightly.

“Banner’s an excellent doctor,” Phil reminds him. “And Steve is probably the most stubborn human being I’ve ever met. He’ll hold on. And you… well, you’re you. And I know you’ll take care of it.”

Maybe it should be too much pressure. Nick’s a lot of things, but he’s not God; he can’t _will_ Steve’s heart to keep beating.

But Phil has faith in him. And so do Steve and Natasha.

Whatever Phil sees in his expression makes him smile. He presses a soft kiss to Nick’s lips.

“I’ll make us some tea.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Nick murmurs. “I'll be there in a minute.”

Waiting until Phil has disappeared into the kitchen, Nick takes a second to silently freak out in his head. Helplessness has never been something he's really had to deal with. Strong, able bodied and determined as all hell to make a better life for himself, the word _no_ had never existed in Nick’s vocabulary.

Any obstacle in his path had been given the same choice: move, or you will be moved.

But he can't do that with Steve’s heart, intimidate or manhandle it into submission. His son’s life is in the hands of a man Nick barely knows.

He takes a deep breath. Puts a lid on the burgeoning panic. Then, he leaves his study to drink a beverage he can’t stand with the man he adores.

 _We’ll be okay_ , Nick thinks, concealing his grimace at the taste of the valerian. _I’ll make sure we’re okay._

_\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

_Oh, this is not good. So not good._

Steve has about resigned himself to introducing his face to the bottom of the stairwell when he hears a loud curse, and a second or two later, a pair of hard hands are gripping his waist.

 _And, yeah, I’m gonna have bruises to show for this_.

But at least he’s not tumbling down a flight of stairs face first. Bruises seem like a small price to pay.

He’s just about to turn around to thank his rescuer--or apologise, he’s not sure yet--when he’s cut off by some more swearing. It occurs to him that the voice is somewhat familiar.

“Christ on a fuckin’ bike. Are you outta your mind?” Bucky demands. “The hell are you doin’ outta bed?”

Three sentences, and that’s all it takes for Steve to decide that he will absolutely _not_ be issuing a goddamn apology.

“I was going... for a… for a walk,” he manages to huff. There isn’t much dignity to be found in this particular situation, what with Bucky holding some (most) of his weight, but Steve is trying his damnedest not to pass out. If he has to have Bucky carrying him back down to his room, he might as well die because he'll never recover from the embarrassment.

 _Just be glad you're wearing pants_ , Steve reminds himself.

“A walk?” Bucky splutters. “A friggin’ walk. You could've died here in the goddamn stairwell, and then what? You'd only be found when the janitor comes up to the roof for a smoke break.”

But despite Bucky’s harsh voice, his hands have since gentled.

“Careful,” he says gruffly, starting to lead Steve down the steps. Bucky’s long brown hair has escaped the little man bun thing he'd been rocking, and it brushes the edge of his jaw. It keeps catching Steve’s eye, distracting him. Even as out of it as he is, Steve has the disconcerting urge to tuck that strand of hair behind his ear.

_Goddamn it, Rogers, concentrate._

They make it to the landing without incident; Steve tries to push away from Bucky, and ends up stumbling instead.

“Would you just…” Bucky huffs, exasperated. “Are you gonna lemme help you, or do I need to let you knock yourself out before I carry you back?” His hold on Steve has tightened again, pressing Steve firmly against his side to keep him upright.

“Don't need you to carry me,” Steve mumbles. The idea is too humiliating to bare.

“And I don't need to explain to Rhodes why you cracked your head open. So let's help each other out a little, huh?”

Steve lets out a low growl of irritation before conceding with a nod.

 _It's your own damn fault_ , he reminds himself.

With that in mind, he looks up at Bucky. And he doesn't mean to, he really doesn't, but Steve finds himself oddly captivated by the colour of Bucky’s eyes. They're an icy blue now.

_He's got ridiculously long eyelashes._

Just like that, Steve’s heart gets hit by another stutter, one that has nothing to do with over exertion.  

_Shit._

“... put your arm around my shoulders,” Bucky is saying, “and I'll keep my arm here.” His arm curls comfortably around Steve’s waist, holding Steve tightly against his warmth. A shiver races down his spine, and he fights the urge to press closer to that delicious heat.

Bucky must feel him tremble, because he frowns down at Steve.

“You're cold,” he says, sounding disapproving. “An’ no wonder, look at what you're wearing.”

Grateful for the patronising comment--it keeps Steve from snuggling into the guy like some kind of freak--he meets Bucky’s stare with a challenging look of his own.

“It's hospital issue,” he snarks back.

“Well, at least you had the goddamn sense to put some pants on,” Bucky says after they spend a moment glaring at each other. “Although, after this stunt, I wouldn't’ve been surprised to see you wonderin’ ‘round the hospital with your ass bared for the whole world to see.”

Indignation steals Steve’s voice for a few seconds.

_Fuckin’ asshole._

“Let's just get outta here,” he mutters. The sooner he gets away from this jerk, the better.

They make their way down another two flights of stairs, and it’s rough going. Bucky’s hold on him in unwavering, but Steve’s legs are more unsteady than he cares to admit.

But that’s not what makes it hard. No, that’s because Steve is trying _desperately_ not to let Bucky take too much of his weight. Which seems to be irritating him. A lot.

Steve can practically _hear_ the other man grinding his teeth, and feels himself fighting the tiniest of smirks. It's been a shitty couple of days, frustration gnawing at him, so being able to get under someone else’s skin is intensely satisfying.

_And if that makes me an asshole, I'm okay with that._

The best part is that they've still got one more flight to go.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Enough about us. How is university life, my son?”

“It is going well, _Tata_ ,” T’Challa--Luke Charles, to those in New York who know him--says, bowing his head respectfully. His parents faces stare out at him from the computer screen, and he feels a wave of homesickness rush over him.

He’s tired; it’s lunchtime in Wakanda, one of the few times of the day where both T’Challa and his parents are free. But that means that it’s just passed six in New York.

Far too early.

What’s worse than missing Mama and Tata is lying to them. But Tata would never approve of what he’s doing. Because it was one thing to put his responsibilities at home on hold to become a teacher, but something else entirely to do it to become a chef.

It’s not that T’Challa worries that his father would be angry. T’Chaka has never been a harsh disciplinarian, but his quiet disappointment when someone has let him down is close to unbearable.

So T’Challa has simply decided not to tell him.

He tries not to think about what will happen should his father find out that he’s a sous chef rather than a lecturer at the university.

“That’s hardly an answer, _igokra_ ,” his mother, Lindiwe, chides him gently. “Tell us what is happening in your life, about your friends, your colleagues.”

Almost as though her words had summoned him, James Barnes makes his appearance, slamming the door open loudly. T’Challa just barely refrains from cursing aloud. While he likes Barnes, he does _not_ need the other man to meet his parents. Especially not when Barnes’ expression resembles that of a thundercloud.

But for once, the dark scowl and unkempt appearance works in T’Challa’s favour. Lindiwe takes one look at Barnes over T’Challa’s shoulder, and lets out a soft cry of alarm.

“Who is that? _Igokra_ , is that a burglar?”

God forgive him, T’Challa doesn't even think twice.

“You,” he booms, immediately leaping to his feet. “How many times have I told you not to come back here?” Ignoring the alarmed look on his friend’s face, he turns back to his parents. “Mama, Tata, I will call you back.” And with that, he slams the computer shut.

A moment of silence, during which time all James does is stare. T'Challa can't quite meet his gaze.

“What… the hell… was that?” he asks slowly.

“I panicked.”

“Panic?” James repeats. “Was that what that was? You let your parents think I was gonna rob you!”

Embarrassment has T’Challa’s cheeks heating slightly, but he’s determined not to let it show.

“How would I explain an angry white man suddenly appearing in my apartment?” he asks instead.

“By tellin’ ‘em that I’m your goddamn roommate?” Bucky makes an irritable sound, dropping his messenger bag on the floor and stalking over to the fridge. He jerks it open, snatching up a milk carton, and drinking straight out of it; the defiant glare he aims at T’Challa dares him to say something.

T’Challa sighs tiredly. This isn’t how he’d wanted to start his morning.

Following his friend into the kitchen, T’Challa gently nudges James out of the way, ignoring the situation with the milk. He gathers ingredients for omelets out of the fridge, his way of making amends.

“Whatcha makin’?” James asks after a brief sullen silence.

“Tortilla omelets. If you’re interested.”

Judging by the look on his face, James most definitely _is_ interested. He’s just not happy about it.

With a grumpy huff, he sets the milk on the counter--T’Challa wrinkles his nose slightly--and heads off to rummage around in the cabinets. James emerges with a chopping board.

“Gimme a damn tomato,” he grumbles.

It’s their version of a truce, and some of the tension in the air dissipates. They work side by side for a few minutes before James speaks.

“You wanna talk ‘bout it?”

“Not particularly.”

“Fuckin’ stoic,” Barnes complains.

“And what about you?” T’Challa asks, a slight smile curving his lips. “Why were you in such a bad mood when you got home?”

As expected, James doesn’t push him to talk about his parents. Instead, he rolls his eyes so hard that T’Challa would be surprised if he didn’t see the inside of his own skull.

“Pain in the ass patient,” James tells him, deftly slicing through the vegetables. His metal hand glints in the dim lighting of the kitchen. “Guy thinks he’s fuckin’ Superman or somethin’, even though he’s not in _any goddamn condition_ to be traipsin’ ‘round the hospital like a dumbass…”

It’s interesting, listening to James complain about his patient. The loss of Ambrose had hit James hard, making him quiet and strangely reserved. But this _pain in the ass patient_ , whoever he is, has gotten James more animated than he’s been in weeks.

_One less thing to worry about, at least._

T’Challa decides not to say anything, unwilling to jinx it if James hasn’t noticed the change. Instead, he ducks his head and busies himself with breakfast.

_Everything will be fine._

_I hope._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since Civil War used Xhosa as the language spoken in Wakanda, I went with that too. 
> 
> Tata: father  
> Igokra: hero (not sure if this is used as an endearment in Xhosa, but I really like the idea of T'Challa's mom calling him that)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took a few liberties with Dr Strange's appearance/backstory, so (not) sorry about that.

Staff meetings are never fun, but they’ve been especially painful these last few days. Without Steve here to distract her, Natasha has to actually  _ listen _ . 

_ It’s too early for this shit _ .

Her eyes are focused on a patch of ceiling just ahead of her as Stark takes people to task for tacky cubicle decorations. This coming from a man who’d once bought a leopard print, diamond encrusted Rolex. 

_ Ugh _ .

Nat’s moved on to contemplating her pumps--her favourite pair, navy blue with six inch heels and an imitation zip across the strap--when something hits her on the forehead. 

She jerks in surprise, barely managing to hold back a yelp. Looking around for whatever it was that hit her, Nat spots a small folded up piece of paper on top of her legal pad. Eyes narrowed, she picks it up and unfurls it.

_ U shld pay attention _

For a second, the words don’t compute. Because there is no possible way that another  _ lawyer _ flung a note--written in  _ text speak _ \--at her head during a staff meeting. 

Only, evidence to the contrary is in her hand.

Playing it casual, Natasha leans back in her seat. She looks her colleagues over, searching for any sign of guilt or fidgeting. But everyone appears to be listening to Stark.

Nat doesn’t like anyone catching her off guard, and she  _ especially  _ doesn’t like not knowing who’s messing with her.

Another piece of paper hits her--on her shoulder this time--and Natasha has to bite back a snarl. She’s going to shove her Louis Vuittons up someone’s--

_ hi :) _

She blinks. This is just… Natasha’s usual composure has deserted her as confusion settles in. 

_ Who even does this? _

This time when she looks across the desk, her eyes immediately settle on Clint Barton. His posture is perfectly relaxed, and he appears to be completely focused on the meeting. He’d have to have moved incredibly fast for her not to have seen him…

Clint doesn’t seem to notice her gaze on him. He’s now fiddling with the end of his tie--Spongebob themed today--pulling a face when Stark starts bitching about the importance of business attire. Nothing about his body language or expression indicates he's been screwing around during the meeting. 

And yet…

Knowing she could be wrong and about to make a complete ass of herself, Natasha flips the tiny scrap of paper over to write a message of her own.

_ What are you doing? _

She quickly scans the faces around her, checking that no one’s paying her any attention and, quick as a flash, flings the tightly folded piece of paper at Barton’s head. 

The guy doesn’t even flinch when it bounces off his cheekbone. Instead, the ghost of a smile touches his lips. For some ridiculous reason, Nat’s hit by a sudden burst of…  _ shyness _ ? She quickly looks away, irritated with herself. 

For the first time since Steve had been admitted to hospital, Natasha’s glad he isn't here. He'd have a friggin’ field day with this. 

Another note comes flying in her direction, and this time she's ready for it. She keeps her expression perfectly neutral as the tiny piece of paper lands; Clint’s posture hasn't changed either, although she sees him watching her out of the corner of his eye. 

Nat takes a second to look around to see if anyone’s noticed their interaction. Everyone else looks bored out of their minds by now, and are lost in their own heads. Deciding it’s safe, Nat unfolds the note. 

_ Flirting.  _

Her eyes widen before before she can stop the reaction; she feels her cheeks heating. Natasha’s usual cool reserve flounders when she looks up and Clint  _ fucking winks. _

_ Oh. My. God. _

That has to be the lamest thing she’s ever seen. Ever. In her entire life. 

It’s also completely endearing.

_ Shit.  _

_\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

_ An apple a day keeps the doctor away. _

“Gonna eat me a bushel of apples,” Steve mutters under his breath. 

No one except Nick hears him though, because the room is packed to the friggin’ rafters with doctors throwing around medical terminology. Some of the words they’re using are bigger than Steve.

“Stow the attitude.” Nick glares at him, temporarily distracted from the intense discussion between Dr Banner and Dr Steven Strange. The infectious disease specialist, Dr Pepper Potts, is listening intently, but hasn’t offered much so far.

_ Probably hard to get a word in edgewise.  _

But going by what's being said, it doesn't sound like Steve’s going to be getting out of here anytime soon. The thought of being stuck in this godforsaken place for another week makes him want to scream. 

Luckily, Dr Strange chooses that moment to turn his attention to Steve. A first generation American, Strange’s mother hailed originally from Tibet. Through sheer grit and determination, Hui An had put herself through night school to become a bookkeeper. After a couple of years, she'd met and fallen in love with Albert Strange, and had Steven not long after they'd gotten married. 

Albert had died less than two years after Steven was born. Something that had apparently spurred his son on to become a heart surgeon, the best in the country. Plus, word has it, he doesn't do too badly with the ladies either. And with his golden skin, pitch black hair, and startling green eyes, Steve can kinda see why. 

Still, gorgeous brilliant surgeon or not, Steve really doesn't want to deal with the man. Or any of the doctors who've invaded his room. 

“We need to decide how to deal with the infection,” Strange says in his slow, deliberate way. “There are some experimental methods--”

“It's too much of a risk,” Dr Banner interrupts. “These treatments you're talking about, they're barely out of their infancy. We need to stick to the tried and tested--”

“The tried and tested only become that way after they've been  _ tried  _ and  _ tested _ ,” Dr Strange cuts in. “I have a colleague involved in an incredibly promising trial that could--”

“Do more harm than good.” Dr Banner has lost his nervous tics by this point; he's as close to angry as Steve’s ever seen him. “We need to rely on facts, and the fact is none of these _revolutionary_ trials are anywhere near ready for us to be taking chances with a patient’s life.”

Dr Strange’s face creases into a scowl, and Steve suddenly finds this turn of events much more interesting that them talking about his bum heart. Any second now, these two medically acclaimed doctors are gonna whip out their dicks and a measuring tape…

Sadly, Dr Potts chooses that moment to speak up.

“Whatever you two decide on, it needs to happen quickly. Tests have shown that Steve isn’t responding to the antibiotics as we’d hoped. If we don’t act soon, it will be just a matter of time before he has an embolism.”

More medi-speak that Steve isn’t interested in listening to. He’s about to make some snarky comment, but the words immediately die on his tongue as he catches a glimpse of Nick’s expression.

_ Jesus, we’re gonna need to get another bed in here for him if they keep this up _ .

Nick catches his gaze, and visibly pulls himself together. It makes Steve’s throat tighten; for as long as he can remember, Nick has been their rock. Always unshaken, always unbent.

Seeing Nick freaking out about it is a thousand times more frightening than any grim prognosis these doctors could throw out.

_ Fuck. _

For the first time, the seriousness of the situation really sinks in. 

_ I could actually die. _

_ Huh. _

_\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

**_Eight Years Ago_ **

_ I think I hate cheese.  _

But that's his own fault. A guy can only eat the same sandwich so many days in a row before just the sight of the damn thing makes him wanna hurl. For a long second, Bucky stays perfectly still in his spot beneath the awning that hangs over the back of the store, just staring at the gooey cheese as though that would transform it into something else.

_ Least ya got food, asshole.  _

That's always something he needs to remember. If it weren't for his job packing packing boxes, he'd probably be living on the streets. 

Bucky has a system. Not a great system, granted, but it works for him. Monday's through to Saturday's, he works at the grocery store from eight thirty until six, with every second Tuesday off. Packing boxes isn't the best job, but Bucky’s gotten to be pretty handy (har har) around the aisles. 

And while the shitty pay will never buy him back his dignity, it does at least mean that he won't have to live off the guilt money his mother sends at the end of every month. So far, he'd only cashed one of those cheques, and it'd been for emergency reasons. Mostly due to him drinking his rent money that first month, self-pity and self-loathing looking to make it a threesome with drunken rage. 

First and last time. It hadn't been worth knowing that the only reason he had a roof over his head was because of his parents money. Becca always used to say that he could be a stubborn asshole, and Bucky was proving her right. 

Thinking about Becca makes his chest hurt, the feeling not unlike the way his elbow sometimes aches, phantom pains from a limb that's no longer there. 

A loud voice interrupts his thoughts, and he can't decide if he ought to be grateful or not. It's when the heavy hand lands on his shoulder that he realises, yeah,  _ not _ . 

“So this is where ya spend your time when you’re not gettin’ wasted,” Mr Papadopolous booms.

“For fuck’s sake,” Bucky mutters. “How the hell d’you find me?”

“I know a coupl’a people,” Papa says casually. “So this is where ya work, huh?” he continues, looking around the store. “Think ya could do better, kid.”

The words, although well meaning, make Bucky bristle. The Maximoffs have been nice, if a little distant. They had two kids a couple years younger than Bucky, and he figured they were worried that maybe he’d be a bad influence or something, what with his drinking. But still, they’d given him a job when most people had taken one look at where his arm used to be and sent him packing.

“It’s a good job,” Bucky grits out. “I like it here.”

“Huh? Oh, I didn’t mean--”

“Look, just tell me why you’re here,” Bucky interrupts. “I got work to do. Don't have time to sit here yakkin’ with you.”

Mr Papadopoulos lets out an irritable huff, crossing his arms over his barrel chest. 

“I wanted to talk to ya ‘bout your arm.”

The reaction is automatic by now; Bucky glances over at his right arm in bemusement. Mr Papadopoulos is rolling his eyes when Bucky looks back over at him. 

“Not that one, wise guy.”

“Only one I got, jackass,” Bucky retorts. 

He's gotten used to their snarling at each other and, if he's honest, Bucky kinda enjoys it. But it's still something of a surprise when Papa smirks back at him. At least he hadn't offended the old asshole. 

“I know a guy,” Mr Papadopoulos tells him. “Past student o’ mine, brilliant. He might be interested in gettin’ a look at ya.”

“ _ You  _ were a teacher?” Bucky asks disbelievingly. It’s hard to imagine this rough old man in a room full of young people, rumbly voice trying to coax them to pay attention.

“At MIT,” Papa says smugly. “An’ this kid, Tony Stark, man, I never met nobody that smart before. He was thinkin’ way ahead of his time, even then. An’ I think he can help ya out with your arm.”

That sounds like bullshit, and Bucky knows that his scepticism has made it onto his face. Mr Papadopolous scowls at him.

“It’s true,” he says, obviously peeved. “C’mon, at least meet ‘im. Whattaya got to lose?”

A couple hours better spent drinking, but Bucky knows better than to say that out loud. The interfering old ass would bitch at him ‘til his ears bled.

“Fine, whatever,” Bucky says finally. “But you’re buyin’ me dinner.”

Grinning, Mr Papadopolous claps him on the shoulder again, making Bucky drop his sandwich. He’s not all that sorry to see it go.

“Meet me at my apartment as six,” Papa says as he strides away. 

_ Pushy asshole. _

“I only get off at six,” Bucky calls to Mr Papadopolous’ retreating figure.

“Then you better walk fast.”

By now, he’s too far away to hear anything Bucky has to say in reply. Half-heartedly flipping Mr Papadopolous off, Bucky waits a beat before deciding to get back to work. 

Besides, if he cuts his lunch break short, maybe Nadia Maximoff will let him leave early.

_ Yeah, an’ maybe a unicorn’ll come shittin’ rainbows, an’ my arm’ll grow back. _

_\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

**_Present Day_ **

Steve feels like he got run over by a bus. Or been knocked around by a giant green rage monster. 

Or something.

Shifting around on the awful hospital bed--seriously, how was  _ anyone _ supposed to get better sleeping on these god awful things?--Steve spots Nick dozing in the chair in the corner of the room. For the first time he can remember, Nick actually looks his age, weariness from too many responsibilities seeming to weigh him down.

He’d always taken on too much. It’s only now that Steve’s older that he realises it. 

More than twenty years have passed since his mother’s death, and it’s sobering to realise that he’s spent more of his life without her than with her. It’s not surprising then, that his memories of Sarah Rogers have started to fade. Not the important ones--her smile, the warmth of a hug--but every day details. The scent of her shampoo, the songs she used to sing, they're fading now. 

As for his biological father, Steve has no memories of the man beyond the stories Sarah had told him. From all he'd heard, Grant Rogers had been a good man. But that was all. There was no emotional connection, none of that same nostalgia Steve sometimes felt for his Ma. 

Belatedly realising that he bladder’s protesting something fierce, Steve swings his legs over the side of the narrow bed. He doesn't even consider waking Nick; it's late, and the poor guy already looks exhausted. Steve would be damned if he woke Nick up just ‘cause he has to piss. 

His legs are unsteady beneath him, and it makes him swear under his breath. Fucking grown ass man can't even walk the couple feet to the goddamn bathroom. 

_ Stop ya bitchin’ _ , Steve mentally chides himself.  _ An’ get movin’ ‘fore ya land on your ass.  _

Using his IV stand as a crutch, Steve slowly shuffles across the room. He glances over at Nick every few seconds to make sure he's still asleep. It takes him what feels like forever to get to the doorway, and once he does he breathes a sigh of relief. 

Now, all he needs to go is get to the end of the hallway. Easy. 

And, surprisingly, it is. 

Okay, maybe not  _ easy _ but at least he gets to the bathroom without incident. The hospital floor is cold beneath his bare feet. 

Maybe that’s what distracts him, or maybe it's the thought of climbing back into that fucking bed and staying there for who knows how the fuck long. Whatever it is, Steve stops focusing on where he's going, and ends up catching his foot in one of the legs of the IV stand. 

It all happens very quickly. One moment, Steve’s vertical and shuffling forward, the next he’s introducing his face to the floor.

He tries to stifle a cry of pain when his elbows slam painfully into the linoleum, but some sound rips itself free anyway. And, because this whole fucking situation isn’t humiliating enough, Steve sees that he’s ripped his IV free too.

A thin rivulet of blood leaks onto the tile. Steve seriously considers just lying here to watch it. 

Getting up seems like too much effort.

_ If I lay here, if I just lay here… _

But Steve doesn’t get to wallow there in the floor because this is a goddamn hospital and the staff do really unnecessary things like check on their friggin’ patients. 

“Jesus Christ,” he hears a familiar voice exclaim.

“Not here, but ya might be able to get him in the chapel,” Steve says sourly.

“Oh, he thinks he’s a comedian now,” Bucky returns sarcastically. Still, he doesn’t hesitate before getting down on his knees to help Steve up. 

Grumbling, humiliated but desperately trying to hide it, Steve starts when he feels an ice cold hand on his arm. The touch makes him shiver. Opening his mouth to comment, Steve looks over at Bucky’s hand on his arm and…

_ Holy shit. _

Instead of flesh, Bucky’s arm appears to be made of… metal? Steve barely notices when Bucky stops moving, completely transfixed by the sight of the strange prosthetic. 

“Wha--How?” he asks softly. Before he can stop himself, or even think about what the hell he’s doing, Steve reaches out to sort of… poke… at Bucky’s arm. A choked sound comes from beside him, and Steve abruptly feels ashamed of himself.

“Oh, my God. I-I-I-I am  _ so  _ sorry,” he stammers, jerking his hand away from Bucky’s arm as though it’d burned him. “I-I-I shouldn’t ha-have--” Steve stops talking as a long silence stretches between them.

Steve seriously considers just pulling away from Bucky and resuming his position on the floor where he belongs because he’s a _ fucking idiot _ .

“C’mon,” Bucky says quietly. “Let’s get you back to your room.”

This time, he doesn’t utter a word of complaint. Exceedingly careful, Bucky helps him to his feet; his left arm is pressing lightly against Steve’s skin through the material of the hospital gown. It takes all of his self-control not to shiver again. 

It doesn’t take too long for them to get to Steve’s room. Nick is still there in the armchair, and he only comes to when Steve accidentally scrapes the leg of his IV stand against the floor. His eyes widen for an instant before he shoots to his feet.

“I’m fine, don’t worry, I’m fine,” Steve says before he can even ask. “I just tripped on my way back from the bath--.”

He may as well not have said anything. Nick isn’t paying his words the slightest bit of attention, too busy scrambling to Steve’s other side to help Bucky manoeuvre him into bed.

“How the hell did this happen?” Nick mutters. “Why didn’t you wake me up, I’da helped you. Are you hurt? I see--Is that blood? Why the hell are you bleedin’?”

Will the indignities never cease?

Nick keeps on peppering Steve with questions he seems to have no interest in hearing the answers to, while Bucky is conspicuously silent. Still, Steve notices Bucky flicking puzzled glances in Nick’s direction, confusion clear on his expression.

It’s almost enough to soothe the sting of being tucked into bed like an overgrown fucking child.

Almost, but not quite. 

Since Nick hadn’t gotten the answers he was looking for from Steve--not that he would’ve stopped to actually  _ listen _ \--Nick turns his attention to Bucky.

“Who’re you?”

Surprise widens Bucky’s eyes as he looks over at Nick. 

“Uh, I’m, uh, James Barnes?”

“You sure ‘bout that?” Nick asks, eyebrows raised. “You don’t sound too sure.”

“ _ Nick _ ,” Steve berates him. “Quit it.”

God, this is the second time a family member’s made Bucky get that deer in the headlights look on his face, and with Steve having just poked at his prosthetic like a  _ fucking idiot _ , he wouldn’t be surprised if Bucky tried to shove a catheter up his ass.

Sideways.

“Thanks for your help,” Steve says to Bucky now, forcing a tense smile. “I think I'm okay from here.”

It's an attempt to give Bucky an out, an opportunity to get away from Nick’s assessing stare, but it doesn't have the desired effect. Instead, Bucky’s lips press into a thin line, irritation replacing his bemusement at Nick’s questioning. 

“I still need to replace your IV,” Bucky tells him.

“Are you sure? Can’t it wait ‘til the morning?”

“No,” Bucky says flatly. “They’re your antibiotics.” 

_ Oh, great, now he probably thinks  _ I think _ he can’t do his job. _

God, being in hospital is so stressful.

“Just gimme a sec.” Bucky doesn’t wait for either Nick or Steve to respond, just hurries out of the room. 

This gives Steve the opportunity to use his left arm--the one where the IV had been not too long ago--and swats at Nick.

“What was that for?”

“ _ You sure ‘bout that _ ?” Steve quotes in disbelief. “You asked him if he was sure about his  _ name _ . Why would you do that?”

“He didn’t sound sure,” Nick protests. “How’m I supposed to be comfortable lettin’ the man take care of you if he isn’t even sure of his own damn name?”

“Probably didn’t expect anyone to be here so long after visiting hours, or for that person to start interrogating him,” Steve hisses back.

“Interrogating him,” Nick scoffs, but doesn’t get to say anymore because Bucky reappears at that moment. Giving no indication that he’d heard any of their conversation, he politely asks Nick to give him some room so he can reinsert the IV.

Steve’s slightly ashamed that he half expects it to hurt, for Bucky’s fingers to be hard against his skin. Instead, Bucky’s incredibly gentle, even with the metal prosthetic; Steve feels only the slightest prick before the needle slides in.

“Thanks,” he mutters.

A noncommittal sound, and then Bucky’s stepping back, releasing his hold on Steve’s arm.

“If you need anything else, just press the call button,” Bucky tells Steve before taking his leave.

Silence for a few seconds. And then…

“Huh.”

“Hmmm?”

“No, I get it now, is all. Just took me a minute.”

Steve looks over at Nick, who’s smirking at him. For some reason, Steve feels himself starting to blush.

“What? Why are you lookin’ at me like that?”

“I just get why you don’t want me givin’ him a hard time.”

“‘Cause he’s my nurse, an’ if you piss him off, he might kill me?”

“Or ‘cause he’s got stubble an’ real pretty eyes?” Nick suggests. His grin widens, making his eyes crinkle in the corners.

It’s so good to see Nick smiling after this whole friggin’ mess with him having landed in the hospital that Steve can’t be  _ too  _ pissed at his old man for laughing at him. Still, he doesn’t allow the relief to show in his expression, settling for rolling his eyes instead. 

“You’re going senile,” Steve tells him loftily. “You should probably get someone from neurology to check that out.”

“Smartass,” Nick scoffs. “You know that that isn’t gonna fly with your sister, right? All you gotta do is make cow eyes at that guy once, an’ she’s gonna be all over it.”

_ Oh,  _ shit. _ I forgot about Natasha. _

There’s no way she won’t notice him making c--

_ Wait a minute… _

“I do  _ not _ make cow eyes,” Steve tells Nick with a glower.

“You’re right,” Nick agrees. “It’s more like a sad golden retriever look.”

“Get out,” Steve growls, flushing more. 

Nick laughs at him some more before holding his hands up as though in surrender. Before leaving, though, he reaches out to ruffle Steve’s hair, as though he thinks Steve is still a scrappy twelve year old. 

_ Ugh. _

_ Dad’s are the worst. _


	8. Chapter 8

**_Fifteen Years Ago_ **

_ This is ridiculous. _

Straightening his tie, Nick fights back a scowl. The thing feels like a goddamn noose around his neck. He’s been a wearing a tie for almost ten years now, and not once, in all that time, has he been this uncomfortable.

_ I’m too old for this shit. _

_ Should just call and cancel. _

Nick doesn’t know what the hell he’d been thinking, asking Phil Coulson out on a  _ date _ . Temporary insanity coupled with a bizarre, unrequited crush had had the words spilling out of his mouth before he could think to stop them.

_ “You wanna grab a drink sometime?” _

At least it’s not some kind of workplace ethical dilemma. Phil had resigned from his position as Nick’s assistant to go into events management, of all things.

“I’ve never seen anyone strangle themselves with their own tie before.”

Jerking around at the sound of his son’s voice, Nick sees Natasha and Steve standing at the doorway to his bedroom, both of them grinning widely. 

“That’s what happens when people hang themselves,” Natasha says matter of factly. “But Nick’s doing it wrong.” 

_ God save me from teenagers.  _

“You're not funny, either of you,” Nick huffs. 

“And you're nervous,” Steve says, sounding intrigued. “I don't think I've ever seen you nervous.”

“I am not nervous,” Nick argues. “I'm just…”

“Anxious?” Natasha suggests innocently. She'd turned fourteen last week, and finally reached the age that everyone had warned him about. Some days she's bright and bubbly and excited about school, the next she hates everyone she's ever met and their dog. 

Today seems to be a good one. Nat’s lips are curved up in a teasing smile, apparently enjoying to watch him squirm. Beside her, Steve appears similarly amused. 

_ Kids are awful.  _

“It's just been a while since the last time I went out on a date,” Nick tells them, finally giving up on the tie. “I can't--I just--” He releases a pent up breath. I'm gonna call an’ cancel, this was a bad idea, I'm almost fifty--”

“Fifty? Yeah, that _is_ old,” Steve interrupts.

“Practically dead,” Natasha agrees. 

Nick turns to glare at them. Belatedly, he realises that they've grown immune to it; neither of them flinch. 

“You're not  _ almost fifty _ ,” Natasha says. “You're not even forty five. And there is no way you're cancelling. I don't even know when the last time was that you went out for something other than work.”

“This Phil guy must be somethin’,” Steve adds. “For you to even think about askin’ him.”

_ Hate it when they tag team me.  _

But the truth is, Phil is special. Nick had known it as soon as he'd met the guy. Kind and honest, terrifyingly efficient, Phil had always been Nick’s sounding board. He respected Phil’s opinions, probably more even than Howard’s. 

The kids take his silence as confirmation, and Natasha decided to dispense on some much needed fashion advice. 

“Lose the tie, change your shirt, and use some of that cologne we got you for father’s day,” she instructs. 

“And put a condom in your wallet.”

Nick almost gets whiplash with how quickly he jerks his head to gape in Steve’s direction. There's a long silence. 

“What? We’re doing a project on STDs in health class,” Steve says defensively. 

_ This is not a conversation I wanna be havin’ with my kids.  _

“Thank you, both of you. I will take your comments under advisement. Now, please, go... do your homework or somethin’.”

“Fine,” Steve sighs, not needing to be told twice. He shuffles down the hallway without another word; Natasha hasn't moved, though. 

Somethin’ wrong?” Nick asks. “‘M I wearin’ the wrong shoes?”

He's expecting some more unsolicited advice, maybe a snarky comment. But instead, Natasha darts forward to give him a tight hug. For a second, he's too startled to move. This kind of physical affection isn't like Nat, never has been. Quickly, Nick shoves aside his surprise to return the embrace. 

“Have fun,” she mumbles. Then, with one last squeeze, she pulls away to follow Steve out the room. 

Affection spreading through him, Nick stares after the kids for a moment. Smiling, Nick moves over to his closet in search of another shirt. He's heard enough from Natasha’s fixation with  _ Fashion Police  _ to know that simple is best. Then, to add a dash of whimsy, he pulls out the Bert and Ernie cufflinks Steve had bought him for his birthday. 

_ Here goes nothin’.  _

_\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

**_Present Day_ **

_ It’s the smell _ , Bucky decides.  _ That’s the worst thing.  _

The scent of antiseptic clings to his skin, lingers in his nose, and it makes his stomach clench. Logic tries to dispel the sensation, tries to remind him to do those breathing exercises he’d read about online.

Nothing seems to help.

He’s hiding in the stairwell--again--with his head between his knees. All Bucky can hear is the sound of blood rushing through his ears.

_ Dunno how much more of this I can take. _

Peg’s suggestion that he come work at the hospital had seemed like a good one, and for the first day or two, things had been okay. No panic attacks, no unwelcome memories of waking up  _ less _ than he’d been before. Bucky had hoped that maybe he was… well, maybe not  _ over it _ , but adjusting. 

No such luck, apparently. 

Time passes, and a distant part of Bucky worries about someone finding him. He’s been gone for too long, one of the other nurses will have noticed that he’s missing. 

_ Get up _ , _ get up, get  _ up.

Stupid fuckin’ legs won’t listen.

Stupid fuckin’ head won’t stop spinning.

“Hey! Hey, Bucky, are you okay?”

Bucky hadn’t heard the sound of anyone approaching--footsteps tend to echo in here--and the unexpected sound makes him lurch unsteadily to his feet; an apology is already tumbling passed his lips. 

“I-I-I’m so-sorry,” he stammers. “I’ll g-get back to work, I-I’m sorry.”

“Whoa, hold up,” the voice says. “It’s fine, I’m not gonna tell anyone.”

Breaths shaky, Bucky feels the sticky tendrils of shame begin to wind through him. He shouldn’t be like this, he’s a fucking  _ nurse _ , he’s supposed to be the one taking care of people, and here he is, just…

Totally falling apart. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles again, this time actually looking up. Steve Rogers is standing just a few steps below where Bucky had been sitting, his expression worried. 

_ And this is just what I need _ , Bucky thinks, his heart sinking down into his shoes. The guy gives him enough crap already, and all this is gonna do is give him more ammunition.

“You shouldn’t be outta bed,” Bucky tells him gruffly. He avoids Steve’s gaze and tries not to let Steve see that he’s struggling to catch his breath. There’s a brief silence as Steve stares at him; it does nothing to ease his discomfort. 

“Are you alright?” Steve murmurs.

It’s not what Bucky had been expecting to hear. Bucky lifts his head slightly, brows furrowed in confusion. 

“Fine,” he says shortly.

More quiet; Bucky’s come back to himself enough that it feels uncomfortable. He clears his throat, straightens his spine, before forcing himself down the stairs to the landing below.

“Glad to see you’re not gaspin’ for breath.” Bucky lifts his chin as though in challenge, waiting for Steve to flare up the way he had the last time they’d been in the stairwell together. But rather than snapping back at him, Steve just shrugs.

“I took the elevator up so I could take the stairs down. Seemed like a good compromise.”

“A good compromise would be you stayin’ in bed so I don’t tell Rhodes ‘bout you goin’ on walkabout while you got a goddamn heart condition.”

Without having to talk about it, they fall into step beside each other as they head down. Bucky watches Steve carefully out of the corner of his eye, ready to grab him should the exertion prove to be too much.

“Rhodes doesn’t scare me,” Steve huffs. His cheeks have turned a delicate shade of pink, but he shows no intention of slowing down.

“Yeah? How ‘bout that guy that was with you the other night?”

“Don’t you dare tell him,” Steve says, whirling around to face Bucky. He’s glaring up at Bucky, bright blue eyes flashing; still, the effect is somewhat ruined by the fact that Bucky’s almost a head taller than him.

For some reason, watching the other man’s hackles rise makes him smile.

“You’re kind of a firecracker,” Bucky says without thinking. “No, I don’ t mean--” he tacks on when Steve scowls at him. “It’s just… You don’t let it keep you down.”

Steve’s expression smoothes out, and he gives Bucky a contemplative look.

“Well, it's either that, or give up,” he points out. “An’ there's still so much I wanna do, y’know? But if this stupid thing--” Steve taps his sternum impatiently. “--doesn't get it’s shit together, I never will. So I gotta do as much of it as I can now.”

“Even if doin’ it puts you out?” Bucky asks. 

“If I have to stay stuck in a hospital bed for the rest of my life, I might as well be dead,” Steve says quietly. “Least if I keel over, it'll be on my own terms.”

Not knowing what to say to that, Bucky decides to just press his lips together and focus on getting back to the third floor. The panic attack that had chased him up the stairs has mostly abated, leaving only a vague uneasiness that he's mostly able to ignore. Beside him, he can hear Steve’s breaths coming in little puffs. It doesn't sound too heavy though, so Bucky figures he should be okay. 

He can't help but think about how he'd been after he'd been in hospital. It had taken a few days for the ramifications of what had happened to really sink in, but when it did…

God, Bucky had wanted to end it right then. What else was there? His dreams were toast, and his family could barely even look at him. 

“You're really brave,” Bucky says abruptly. 

“Huh?” 

“Just… the way you keep tryin’. Most people woulda been too afraid to keep goin’.”

Steve is shaking his head before Bucky even finishes his sentence. 

“It's what people do, Buck. We all carry on. An’ anyway.” Steve looks over at him pointedly. “You know what it's like, you did it too. Seems to me that you're just as brave, maybe more. Least with me, nobody can go pokin’ at my heart like some asshole.”

The last is said with a wry twist of his lips, and Bucky can’t help but laugh a little. 

“I can tell ya, it’s not the worst thing anyone’s ever done. So don't worry ‘bout it,” he tells Steve.

“God, people can be such dicks sometimes,” Steve mutters. 

“Dunno that they mean to be,” Bucky says thoughtfully. “Sometimes people just blurt stuff out before they can think on it too hard.”

“Yeah, well, it'd be better if they used that thing God decided to stick between their ears.”

Steve pauses then, foot hovering just above the next stair, and he turns to look up at Bucky earnestly. It's disconcerting, too much like Steve can see through him somehow. 

“‘M sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable or… weird, or anything,” Steve says. “I know how much I hate people starin’ or treatin’ me different ‘cause of my heart. Didn't mean to do the same thing to you.”

Instinct makes Bucky want to shrug the apology off. He hadn't really taken offense at Steve’s reaction the other night, although he had sort of expected to be peppered with questions. That hadn't come, and somehow, Bucky doesn't expect it too. 

“Thanks,” he says quietly, allowing a small smile to slip free. “I appreciate that.”

With the air now clear, they spend just a moment staring at each other before starting down the stairs again. And maybe Bucky’s being an idiot--hell, he’s  _ probably _ being an idiot--but he feels a slight spark of connection, a warmth in his chest after speaking to someone who might actually  _ get it _ .

It’s nice.

_ Oh, yeah, you’re definitely an idiot. _

_\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

_ This not a big deal. You can do it. One foot in front of the other. _

_ Wasn’t raised to be a sissy, so suck it up. _

Taking a deep breath, Natasha braces herself to step into the puddle separating her from her car. The skies had opened up today, releasing a torrent of rain, interspersed with the occasional clap of thunder. 

Awesome weather.

Just not when she’s wearing a pair of nine hundred dollar shoes. 

“Need some help?”

Her head jerks up at the sound of the unfamiliar male voice, ready to knee whoever it is in the crotch. It’s been a long friggin’ day, and she’s still going to head passed the hospital on her way home.

So maybe crunching some potential perv’s privates would be a good way to relieve tension.

Only, it’s not some perv. It’s Clint, wearing another garish tie. He’s staring down at the puddle, his expression unaccountably serious. Nat wonders if he’s making fun of her.

“No. Thank you.”

“Okay.” 

Clint makes no effort to leave, just rocking back and forth on his heels beside her. And now that Natasha’s seeing him up close, she notices for the first time the hearing aid in his left ear. It's unobtrusive, the colouring blending in almost seamlessly with Clint’s skin, which explains why she hadn't seen it before. 

“Sensorineural hearing loss,” Clint says abruptly. “Mom caught German measles while she was pregnant with me.”

_ Oh, God, I'm staring.  _

Embarrassment at her behaviour has her jerking her gaze away from him as heat rises up to colour her cheeks. It takes all her poise to keep her tone even. 

“Does that mean you speak sign language?” she asks. 

He makes a fist, then jerks it up and down. For a second, Natasha thinks he's mimicking jerking off--which would make no sense--before understanding dawns. 

“I'm guessing that means… yes?” Natasha says hesitantly. 

“Got it in one,” he tells her with a wink.

_ That really shouldn’t be attractive _ , Nat thinks as she fights back a smile. Rather than let Clint see it, she forces her gaze straight ahead; it forces her to confront  _ The Puddle _ .

_ Oh, what the hell. _

“You need a ride?” she asks, making to step down from the sidewalk and into the puddle separating her from her car. But before she can move, Clint lets out a small yelp before grabbing hold of her wrist.

“Are you crazy?” he demands. “Suede and water do  _ not  _ mix well. Like pineapple on pizza.”

“What's wrong with pineapple on pizza?” Nat asks. 

“It ruins a good thing. Here.” Without waiting for Natasha to argue, Clint swiftly lifts her off her feet and deposits her on the other side of the puddle. He then takes a step back. “Sorry, I shoulda asked, but I'd rather you punch me than let you ruin a pair of Jimmy Choos.”

This guy is full of surprises. Tilting her head, Natasha stares at him for a long moment. If his expression is anything to go by, he's expecting a sharp slap at the very least. 

“So you didn’t answer my question,” Nat says casually. “Do you have a ride?” she elaborates when Clint gives her a confused look. 

“Oh, yeah. I’m gonna catch the bus.” 

“The… bus?”

“Yup. Driver an’ I go waaaaaay back.”

And that’s why, when Natasha drives passed the bus stop a few minutes later, she takes a moment to raise her hand in a wave. Clint returns the gesture with a smile that makes her stomach do some weird swoopy thing.

_ Is there anything worse than a crush? _

_ Ugh. _

_\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

“You don’t call, you don’t write. At this point, I’d be willing to settle for smoke signals. Or perhaps a homing pigeon.”

Bucky looks up from the computer screen where he’s filling in patient information, to meet the unimpressed gaze of Peggy Carter. Even as guilt tugs at him, Bucky can’t help but smile. 

“Hi.”

“Actually, I’m not entirely sure how homing pigeons work,” Peg continues thoughtfully. “How do they know where to go?”

“I have no idea.”

“Hmmm…” Peggy purses her lips. “What about cell phones? Email? Facebook? Do you not know how to use those either?”

“Nobody uses Facebook anymore,” Bucky says with a smirk. He moves toward Peggy, arms outstretched for a hug. 

He should know better, though. Instead of stepping in for the embrace, Peggy crosses her arms over her chest, jaw jutted out stubbornly. Behind the irritation, Bucky thinks he sees the faintest flicker of hurt. 

Any attempts at humour dies as his stomach clenches. 

“When we last saw each other, you weren't in the best frame of mind,” she says quietly. “I understand what it is to lose someone close to you, and I know that we often need space to… to process. But I started to worry after I hadn't heard from you in awhile. I left you several messages, but when I got no reply…” Peggy trails off, lips pressed together. “Well, I just wanted to see if you were alright. And you seem to be perfectly fine, so I'll be on my way.”

She gives him a small smile, kind and sad, before turning on her heel to walk away. 

For a second, Bucky’s paralysed. It'd be easier--for both of them-- to let her go. Peggy would eventually give up on him, and Bucky wouldn't be forced to find the words for why he'd been such a shitty friend. 

“Peg, wait up,” he calls, hurrying towards her. 

Pausing, she looks over her shoulder at him, expression cautious. Bucky steps a few feet away, worrying his lower lip between his teeth.

“I’m sorry. I-I-I didn’t know what to say, how to--” He can’t continue, guilt and anxiety bubbling up in his gut.

“God, James, no, you don’t have to apologise. I’m sorry. This… this wasn’t the best idea, I shouldn’t have ambushed you at work.”

“Only place you knew where to find me,” Bucky points out.

“Still, this isn’t the place to talk about it.”

They stare at each other for a moment before Bucky offers a tentative smile. 

“D’you have any plans tomorrow afternoon? Maybe before two? That’s when my shift starts.”

“I’d like that,” she replies. “Does twelve sound alright?”

“Perfect.”

“But… are you sure? I don’t want to push if you still need space. Really, I just wanted to see that you were alright--”

“Your not pushin’,” Bucky tells her. “I wanna hear ‘bout how you’re doin’. And, uh… tell you ‘bout what’s happenin’ with me. If you want.”

He's not expecting the hug, but when it comes, it feels like something tense inside him relaxes. Peggy’s warm, her grip strong, and it's probably the first time that Bucky actually  _ welcomed  _ human contact in too long to think about. 

“Alright, well, I'll see you tomorrow,” she says, releasing him and taking a step back. “And don't you dare be late. I want to hear how you're liking it here.”

Peg leaves not long after that; most of the warmth seems to trail along in her wake as the chill of apprehension traces up Bucky’s spine. 

_ One thing at a time. That's tomorrow’s problem, Barnes. Stay in the here and now.  _

It's shrink talk from those few months after he'd lost his arm. And just like back then, it does nothing to ease Bucky’s nerves. 

Luckily, he doesn't have time to dwell. One of the other nurses--Jasper, Bucky thinks his name is--bustles passed, barking at Bucky as he goes. 

“Dinner time, man. Let's go.”

Moving on autopilot, Bucky trails behind the other man. Later, he won't really remember the usual mealtime buzz, or the slightly bewildered look Steve Rogers aims in his direction. 

Bucky barely even registers getting home. 

Truth is, it actually comes as kind of a relief. 


	9. Chapter 9

_ Be careful what you wish for.  _

That’s what they always say, right? Well, it turns out that  _ they  _ are right for once. 

Lying in his hospital bed, Steve regrets every wish he’s ever made,  _ ever _ . 

And the reason for that is standing at the foot of his bed, talking a mile a minute, and taking absolutely no notice of the pained look on Steve’s face.

“... Dad mentioned you were in the hospital, and I thought, I bet a visit would cheer Steve right up. And here I am.” Tony Stark says this last bit with a wide sweeping of his arms, in a sort of  _ ta-da _ gesture.

“I’m, uh… glad you did. It’s great to see you,” Steve says, lying through his teeth. “H-how’ve you been?”

It’s not that Steve doesn’t like Tony; quite the opposite, in fact. Despite growing up with Howard--who was distant at best--Tony is one of the most giving people Steve had ever met. It’s just that…

_ Tony doesn’t ever stop talking. _

“Just got back from Tokyo,” Tony tells him, sparing a moment to look around the sparse hospital room. Spotting the threadbare chair where Nick usually sits vigil, Tony drags the thing closer to Steve’s bed. It’s all Steve can do to hold back a wince as the chair legs let out a loud screech across the tile; Tony doesn’t seem to notice.

“Got invited to the Light-Tech Expo,” Tony continues as he drops down onto the chair, tilting back to put his feet up on the bed. “It was great, I got to eat sushi and, my God, have you ever tried sake? It’s amazing. I swear, forget the bullet train, the Japanese need to be lauded for that stuff more’n anything else…

And so it goes.

He doesn't know how much time passes while Tony tells him about his trip, occasionally whipping out his phone to show Steve pictures--mostly of women, sometimes of cars--before Tony finally seems to take a breath. 

“How're you feelin’?” he asks at last. “They figure out how to fix ya up?”

There's a slight furrow between Tony’s brows, a rare show of concern. Steve waves it off. 

“I'll be outta here any time now,” he says easily, ignoring the slight pang of guilt he feels. The truth is, he has no idea when they're going to discharge him. The antibiotics aren't working, and Dr Strange and Dr Banner can't agree on the appropriate course of action to take. Steve had heard Dr Pott’s quiet murmur that it may come down to surgery. 

The thought makes his stomach twist uneasily. 

It looks like Tony wants to say something serious, but lucky for the both of them, he decides against it.

“Are you hungry? I’m hungry.” He gets up from the arm chair, allowing it scrape across the floor. In the space of a few restless strides, Tony’s peering down the hallway, muttering to himself.

“Dinner’s served at six,” Steve says hesitantly, wondering if this means that Tony plans on leaving. Oddly enough, he’s torn between relief and disappointment. “Maybe they’ll fix you a plate if you ask?”

“You want me to eat hospital food?” Tony asks, clearly horrified. “No, no, we’ll order in. Might as well get for everybody. Nurses too.”

“Wait, what?”

But Tony… is clearly not listening.

“Not sushi. God knows, I’ve had enough of  _ that  _ to last me a while. Steak?” He cocks his head thoughtfully before discarding the idea quickly. “No, place is fulla heart patients. Chicken? Who doesn’t like chicken? Nobody.” 

“Tony.  _ Tony _ ,” he says more forcefully when the other man ignores him. “You can’t order food for the entire ward.” Steve meets Tony’s bemused gaze as firmly as he can, seeing the lack of comprehension in Tony’s expression.

Because  _ of course _ , Tony would think nothing of ordering takeout for a whole bunch of strangers.

“Why not?” Tony asks, true to form.

“It’s not--You don’t--” Steve rolls his eyes, ‘cause seriously, he wouldn’t have to  _ explain _ this to anybody else. “Just order for yourself.”

“You want me to eat on my own? That’s no fun,” he says with a pout. “There’s a great Brazilian place a couple blocks down. Gimme a minute, I’m gonna talk to the staff.”

And then, without waiting for a response, he marches out of the room. Steve can hear his loud voice as he calls for one of the nurses.

_ Oh, boy. _

Looks like the cardiology ward is getting takeout tonight. Whether they like it or not.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

There’s never enough quiet. It’s something Bucky finds himself looking for more and more often, especially after more than an hour or two in the hospital. He spares a moment to thank God that Peggy hadn’t known anybody in the ER. 

Bucky wouldn’t have lasted a day.

Making his way back down the stairs leading from the roof, Bucky’s feet feel heavy. The night before had been a bad one, nightmares from half-remembered nights in the hospital had him waking up, choked off screams caught in his throat.  

_ I just wanna be normal. _

He’s distracted from his self-pity once he hits the third floor. There’s some kind of commotion going on, a small crowd gathered around the front desk. Eyebrows lifted slightly, Bucky shuffles over to see what’s going on.

Four people stand out in the throng, their brightly coloured uniforms standing out among the dull blue scrubs worn by the nurses. Bucky pauses beside Jasper Sitwell, taking in the scene before him.

“What is all this?” he asks, staring at the counter in dismay. There are about a dozen brown paper bags bearing the red logo,  _ Brazilian Grill _ , emitting smells that make Bucky’s stomach growl. 

Sitwell rolls his eyes.

“Some asshole decided to order takeout for the whole goddamn ward,” he mutters. “More money than freakin’ sense.”

Before Bucky can reply, a strident voice cuts through the low chatter that had been filling the hallway.

“Friggin’ finally,” the man says. “I thought you were never gonna show up.” The voice is vaguely familiar. Bucky frowns to himself, trying to place it. Meanwhile, the delivery guys are exchanging bemused looks.

“We, uh… we’ve never delivered to a hospital before,” one of the delivery guys says nervously. He’s got smooth brown skin and wide hazel eyes, and the name tag on his chest reads  _ Peter _ . “We weren’t sure if it was a hoax, or somethin’.”

“Do I look like a hoax?”

Bucky looks up now that the voice has gotten closer, and he feels himself freeze in place. Memories rush over him, and sweat coats his skin in an icy sheet.

_ shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit _

He remembers that voice; he remembers that face. Tony Stark, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist. The man who’d taken pity on an old college professor’s hired help, and designed him a bionic arm. 

The same man who’d let HYDRA get their hands on him.

_ Breathe. Just breathe. _

Keeping his eyes on Stark, Bucky slowly backs toward the stairwell again, this time headed downstairs. He'll call Rhodes later, tell him that he's been sick. Fuck it, he'll even fuckin’ resign if he has to. 

_ I just need to get out _ . 

Footsteps unsteady, Bucky shoves open the door to the emergency exit, and makes his way down. It's only once he makes it out of the hospital that he feels like he can breathe again; still, Bucky doesn't stop. He has to keep moving because the second he stops, the panic will set in, crippling and cold and humiliating. 

Bucky finally reaches T’Challa’s apartment, fingers trembling as he works at the lock. 

_ C’mon, c’mon,  _ c’mon.

The door swings open, and Bucky stumbles inside. T’Challa isn’t home, thank Christ. Scrambling, Bucky makes it to the bathroom before his knees give way. It’s familiar, the taste of bile in his throat. So if the remembered fear, the smell of chemicals, an accented voice whispering to him…

_ “You will be HYDRA’s greatest achievement.” _

Stomach heaving, Bucky squeezes his eyes shut. 

He doesn’t move for a long time.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**_Seven Years Ago_ **

“God, I can’t believe this is happening.”

“You an’ me both,” Tony Stark says, attention fixed on his phone. It looks like he’s playing some game.

But whatever. Bucky isn’t willing to let Tony’s inattention ruin this for him.

_ This is it. If this works, an’ I can be  _ normal _ again. _

Bucky wants it so bad. More than he’s ever wanted anything. If this works, he can maybe be  _ Bucky  _ again, not this fuckin’ waste of space he’s become. 

He  _ needs _ this to work.

Walking into the HYDRA building, Bucky feels a faint flicker of disquiet. The place is kinda grim looking, all stainless steel and chrome.

“What’d you say these fellas do?” Bucky asks as the automatic doors slide open. There’s a receptionist seated at the front desk, and she gives them both a cool look. She’s got bright blonde hair, hipster glasses perched on the bridge of her nose, and her name tag reads  _ Sin _ .

“Can I help you, gentlemen?” she asks. 

“Uh, yeah,” Tony says, ignoring Bucky’s question. “We’re lookin’ for Abraham Erskine. He in?”

Sin looks at them calmly as she replies.

“I’m afraid Dr Erskine isn’t in this morning.”

Abruptly, it feels like all the air leaves Bucky’s lungs at once.

“No, no, no, no, no,” he says, voice high and thin. “No, he’s supposed to be here. He’s  _ supposed  _ to be here.” Beside him, Tony reaches out to put a calming hand on his right arm. It takes all his control not to shake it off.

“Well, he’s not. Sorry,” Sin says, not sounding particularly apologetic. “But I have someone else who could help you.”

“Who?” Bucky demands immediately. The receptionist’s eyebrows rise a fraction, but she doesn't otherwise react. 

“Hold on,” Tony interrupts. “Where did Erskine go?”

“Indefinite sabbatical.”

“Impossible. We've been working together for almost a year now, there's no goddamn way he'd bail on this project.”

“Well, Mister Stark, I'm sure you of all people can understand how… flighty the intellectually gifted can be.”

“Yeah, when they're young and hot and got millions of dollars to throw around. Far as I know, Erskine is zero out of three.”

“Enough,” Bucky says sharply. He steals a quick look at Tony, who looks pissed, before looking back at Sin; her expression is harder to read. Desperation forces the words passed his lips. 

“This, uh… this someone else. Who is it?”

“His name is Dr Arnim Zola. Both he and Dr Erskine are involved in experimental neurocybernetics.” Here, Sin’s gaze lingers on Bucky’s arm pointedly. “They're doing miraculous things to assist those who have been handicapped.”

Shame at the word  _ handicapped _ makes Bucky hunch his shoulders defensively, a futile attempt to get away from those icy green eyes. Beside him, Tony bristles. 

“Yeah? Then is there a reason why nobody's put a filter between your mouth and your brain yet?” he snaps. 

For one terrifying moment, Bucky thinks she's going to tell them to leave. He can't deal, doesn't know what he'll do if he has to stay this way forever,  _ a fucking cripple _ …

“Please, if you'll wait just a few minutes, I'll ask Dr Zola to come down and explain things to you,” Sin says, unruffled. “He is just as qualified as Dr Erskine to perform any necessary procedure.”

Relief makes Bucky’s legs weak. 

“Yes,” he says immediately. “Pl-please. Thank you.”

She gives Bucky a thin smile before asking that he and Tony take a seat on one of the comfortable looking couches. A minute later, Bucky can hear her talking quietly on the phone, but he doesn't understand her words. She's speaking… German, maybe?

“Barnes, this is a bad idea,” Tony says immediately. “You can’t just let some stranger perform this procedure. He could’ve got his degree online for all you know--”

“I don’t care,” Bucky bursts out. Tony blinks in surprise, and Bucky adds more quietly, “I don’t care. Anything’ll be better than this.”

“You don’t mean that.”

No. No, he doesn’t. Not really. But…

“Look, if this works, maybe I can… get back to normal. Or as close as I can get. I can get a job, I can pay you and Papa back--”

“That isn’t necessary,” Tony interrupts.

“Yeah, it is, okay? I can’t--I can’t be a charity case. So, this Zola guy, he’s gonna fix me, and I’m gonna make this up to you guys. Alright?”

Tony doesn’t reply for a long moment; then, his lips quirk into the faintest semblance of a smile.

“I accept cash and sexual favours.”

Before Bucky can do anything more than bark out a harsh laugh, the sound of a throat being cleared interrupts him. Looking over his shoulder, Bucky sees a short, hunched over man peering at them curiously over the rims of his glasses. 

“Good morning,” the man says. “I am Dr Zola. Miss Schmidt said you wished to speak to me?”

Turns out, Dr Zola had a doctorate in neurocybernetics, and had spent some time working in East Berlin during the Cold War. Zola gives a list of his accomplishments and the projects he’s worked on, and by the end, even Tony looks impressed. 

Still, Tony still seems hesitant.

But Bucky doesn’t want to hear it. In that moment, hope drowns out all his misgivings, all the doubts. 

_ This is gonna work out, this is gonna work out. _

_ It  _ has  _ to work out. _

What no one has ever mentioned though--not Mr Papadopolous, not Tony, not even his family when they were still talking to him--is that hope is a poison. It burns away your common sense, and it clouds your judgement.

And that’s why Bucky doesn’t notice the catlike smile on Sin’s face as they make their way passed the front desk. He ignores the way his stomach clenches when cold, clammy hands examine where his arm. The greedy look on Zola’s face gets brushed aside because  _ this is his chance.  _

Hope is kinda like the snake in the garden. It shouldn't have come as a surprise when it turned around and bit Bucky in the ass. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**_Present Day_ **

The antibiotics aren’t working. And they aren’t going to.

Nobody’s actually come out and  _ said _ it in so many words--too much talk of increasing this, decreasing that, substituting pill A for pill B--but Steve knows. He can feel it.

Weakness is spreading through his body, and his daily walks have come to an end. Most days, it’s almost too much to make it across the hall to the bathroom.

_ But I’ll be damned ‘fore I let ‘em stick a catheter in me. Or make me use a goddamn bedpan. _

It’s that thought that forces Steve out of his bed. Muscles weak from inactivity, Steve shuffles forward. For once, he’s glad for the IV stand that’s become a permanent fixture at his side.

They’re going to have to operate, it’s only a matter of when. Dr Banner and Dr Strange seem to have finally reached an accord in terms of what medications to put Steve on, but are still reluctant to actually cut Steve open.

_ I don’t wanna die here. _

Steve tries not to entertain thoughts like that--there’s no point to them--but now that it’s cross his mind, he can’t shove it aside. He can feel his lips trembling as he tries to just make it to the bathroom and back. That’s all he needs to do, and then he can fall apart in peace.

But someone  _ up there _ clearly has it out for him. Because he’s barely made it five steps when Bucky rounds the corner, looking cagey. They both freeze when they catch sight of each other.

“Don’t ask me what I’m doin’ up,” Steve says, his voice too choked up to sound sharp like he’d wanted it to.

“Wasn’t gonna,” Bucky mutters. His voice has a lifeless quality to it that’s unusual, and even through his own misery, Steve notices the dark rings under his eyes.

“Ya look like shit,” Steve says without thinking.

That seems to bring Bucky back into the here and now. He actually looks at Steve, and his eyebrows raise a fraction. If he weren’t so exhausted, Steve imagines that Bucky would’ve smiled.

“Seriously? When’s the last time you looked in the mirror, punk?”

“I don’t got as far to fall, jerk,” Steve shoots back. 

As soon as the words are out of his mouth, he wants to kick himself. Flirting in the hospital hallway? Really? But Bucky doesn’t seem to notice. He’s looking between Steve and the bathroom, brows drawing together.

“D’you need some help?” Bucky asks quietly. 

Steve sighs quietly. More than anything, he wishes he could honestly turn Bucky down. But with the way he's feeling, that would be beyond even his level of stupid. 

Nodding mutely, Steve keeps his gaze on the floor, unwilling to see any pity in Bucky’s expression. They make their way to the bathroom, and Bucky spares him the indignity of having to piss in front of a virtual stranger. 

He used to think this was the worst part of being sick. Being seen as weak, having people feeling sorry for him. But that’s not it.

The worst thing is seeing the strain this whole goddamn mess is putting on his family. 

Even though they’re trying to hide it, Steve can see it in their expressions: the worry, the fear. Natasha’s usually flawless complexion is pale and drawn, and there are dark circles under her eyes.

_ Stupid fuckin’ heart. _

Tired from that short walk, Steve leaves the bathroom to find Bucky waiting for him. He manages to swallow his pride, and offers a weak smile in Bucky’s direction.

“Thanks for doin’ this.”

He’s expecting something along the lines of, “Yeah, it’s my job.” Instead, though, Bucky looks at him seriously; Steve still can’t figure out what colour his eyes are.

“Any time, pal,” he says. Without another word, Bucky moves to Steve’s left side, and takes his upper arm in a firm grip. 

His skin is warm, and there are callouses on his palm. Steve fights off an involuntary shiver.

It's ridiculous, the stirring Steve feels in his chest. The feeling is intense, and his weak heart shouldn't be able to accommodate it. He hasn’t felt like this in the longest time, too busy, too sick, to even think about… whatever it is that’s going through his goddamn head right now.

_ Stupid, stupid, stupid.  _

Steve isn't a psych major, but he's heard enough about this sort of thing to be able to recognise it. Transference can happen, especially in a situation like this. 

But it’s just… it’s nice. A welcome distraction from the antiseptic smells and cold floors and the constant poking and prodding of doctors. 

Climbing into bed, Steve doesn’t look at Bucky as he pulls the blankets over his legs. He’s freezing, even his nails going blue.

“You need extra blankets?” Bucky asks.

“Uh, no, I’m okay.” When Steve sees Bucky frowning at him, he relents slightly. “There’s a sweater hangin’ over the back of the armchair. Mind gettin’ it for me?” 

That appears to mollify Bucky slightly. He passes the sweater over, and watches closely as Steve pulls it on. It’s slightly irritating, but since Bucky doesn’t actually comment, Steve decides not to either. 

Quiet stretches out between them for a long moment, and Steve speaks without thinking.

“A-are you okay?” Bucky looks startled by the question, so Steve hastily tacks on, “I mean, I know it’s not any of my business, but…”

Licking his lips, Bucky scratches the back of his head, and then starts fussing with Steve’s blankets. The nervous gestures seem at odds with the tall, strong figure he presents. It’s endearing and sad and Steve kinda wants to hug him. But before he can do anything stupid--like give in to the urge--Bucky gives a self-deprecating laugh.

“Yeah, I don’t… I don’t sleep too good. Nightmares.” 

The last word comes out as a whisper, and regret crosses Bucky’s expression; it’s clear he hadn’t meant to reveal that much.

“Wish I could trade ya,” Steve offers. “Seems like all I can do these last couple weeks is sleep.”

“You worried?”

It’s not a question that Steve particularly wants to answer. And if Nick or Natasha had asked, he would’ve denied it. But now...

“Kinda,” he admits. “I mean, I’ve been dealin’ with this for a while, but it’s never--” Steve takes a shaky breath. “It’s never been this bad before.”  

“Want me to tell you that you’ll be okay?”

“I wouldn’t believe you.”

That makes Bucky roll his eyes, even as a small smile teases the corners of his mouth. It’s more genuine than any other expression he’s had lately, and Steve feels an absurd surge of warmth.

_ Oh, yeah, I’m in big trouble. _

Neither of them says anything for a few seconds, and this time, the silence becomes awkward. Bucky shuffles back a little, guarded again.

“So, I gotta get back to work. I’ll, uh, I’ll see you later,” he says.

“Yeah, okay.”

It’s weird, how Steve doesn’t want Bucky to go. But what’s weirder is how Bucky doesn’t seem to want to leave either. 

Steve can't help himself.

“Hey, Buck?”

“Yeah?” Bucky looks over his shoulder back at Steve. He’s hard to read, his expressions skipping from open and vulnerable to wary and reserved and back again. Right now, Steve can’t tell whether prolonging this welcome or not.

“Thanks. For… y’know.”

“Just call if you need anything.” Then, with a ghost of a smile, Bucky leaves the room.

And if Steve spends a few minutes staring after him, well… it’s nobody’s business but his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so... preemptive note. From what I've seen on tumblr, people take the whole Team Tony/Team Steve thing very seriously. And this part of the story is NOT me attempting to vilify Tony. I do have a plan in mind to sort of mirror the first Iron Man. So please, trust.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this is where things get a wee bit iffy. I did some reading on heart disease, but quite a bit of the terminology went over my head. So if anyone who knows better than me is reading this, I am very sorry for the mistakes!

Natasha hates life. Not in a depressed kind of way but more because… it’s disorderly. Inconsistent.

The good comes with the bad, and that makes it unpredictable and just… fucking idiotic. 

Some people might argue that that’s the best part, why life is so exciting. And Natasha would tell those people to fuck off. It’s not  _ exciting _ to watch your little brother waste away in a goddamn hospital bed. There’s nothing  _ good _ about finding yourself attracted to some random guy when there’s so much worry in your dads’ eyes. 

“Your face is gonna freeze like that.”

“Good. It’s a burden being this attractive.”

She looks up at the sound of Steve’s weak laugh. He’s gaunt and pale, his usually bright blue eyes are dull and tired. But his smile is as bright as ever.

It makes her hands itch, the urge to hit something almost overwhelming. 

_ Steve shouldn’t fucking be here. _

“Hey. You okay?” Steve asks softly.

“You’re asking  _ me _ ?”

“I know you’re worried,” he replies. “But I’m gonna be okay.”

The words are meant to be comforting, but it has the opposite effect. Her  usual cool reserve, the calm she clings to in the face of a storm, is crumbling. Natasha takes a deep breath before getting to her feet.

“There anything you want from the cafeteria? I’m gonna grab some coffee.”

“What? Wait, Nat, don’t go. C’mon, talk to me.”

“Just gonna be a minute,” she says over her shoulder, already halfway out the room. Her heels make a sharp clacking sound against the tile, and Nat focuses on that as she skirts nurses and visitors and patients. The hubbub scrapes across her nerves; she keeps moving.

Heading straight for the elevator, Natasha doesn’t look left or right. And when she steps into the empty car, she doesn’t wait to see if anyone’s heading in her direction; she immediately presses the button for the ground floor. 

It’s only once the elevator doors slide shut that she allows the collected facade to drop. 

For just a moment, Natasha tries to imagine what things would be like without Steve. The little brother she hadn’t been sure she wanted had become her best friend. They'd been through so much together--school, heartbreak, fights, Nick  _ dating _ \--that the very idea not being able to turn to Steve about what’s happening in her life is horrifying. 

_ Please,  _ please _ , just let him be okay.  _

And for the first time since she was a little girl, Natasha finds herself crying in public. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**_Fifteen Years Ago_ **

“Out with it.”

“It’s nothin’.”

“Steven Grant Rogers, you got blood all over your face. You really gonna tell me it’s nothin’?”

The familiar stubborn jut of Steve’s chin, and it’s all Nick can do not to throw his hands up in defeat. This isn’t the first time Steve has tried to sneak by with his face a bruised and bloody mess, but this has to be the worst Nick has ever seen it.

“Will you tell me what’s goin’ on?” Nick demands, looking over at Natasha. 

She’s a little roughed up too, with the slightest of bruises at the corner of her mouth. What Nick wouldn’t give for five minutes alone with the assholes who’d hurt his kids.

A moment where Nat and Steve exchange a look; some wordless communication passes between them. Natasha glances back at Nick, and shrugs. 

_ Yeah, I’ll have better luck tryin’ to get blood outta a rock. _

Scowling and muttering about goddamn teenagers, Nick goes to retrieve the first aid kit out from under the kitchen sink.

“Sit,” he orders, gesturing at a chair. His tone brooks no argument, and both Steve and Natasha do as they’re told.

Nick hands over a bag of frozen peas to Natasha, which she presses against her mouth with a wince. His anger flares brighter. 

“Can’t let you two outta my sight for two goddamn minutes,” Nick grumbles, hands gentle as he dabs at the blood on Steve’s face. “Always gettin’ in trouble.”

“Sorry,” Steve mumbles, his expression glum.

“Nothin’ for you to be sorry ‘bout,” Nick flares up immediately. “It’s whoever did this to you that oughta be sorry.”

Dinner that night is a quiet affair. There have been some nights where Phil’s joined them, but Nick decides against inviting him this time. He’s still too new to the kids, and Nick gets the feeling they need his full attention tonight. 

“You know, whatever it is, you can tell me,” Nick says, once they’ve packed the dishwasher. Steve and Natasha have both been subdued, and his words don’t seem to help. They exchange another one of those  _ looks _ , where they communicate without saying a word.

It’s almost enough to make Nick smile.

“An’ I wanna tell you that I will never judge you. Ever. Whatever happened, I’m here for you two, an’ I love you.”

“Oh, my God,” Natasha groans. She leans over the sink and bangs her head lightly against the metal. “Just tell him, Steve,  _ please _ . Feels like I’m stuck in an afterschool special.”

Steve laughs softly at that before he relents. All traces of humour drain from his expression as he looks back over at Nick.

“Some… some guy caught me l-l-looking at him,” he stammers. “He got mad.”

“What? You tellin’ me some punkass hit you for lookin’ at him?” Nick demands, outraged. “I swear to God, what am I payin’ that school for if they’re lettin’ little assholes run ‘round--”

“No, Nick, I was… I was  _ lookin’ _ at him. Y’know?”

Understanding dawns, and Nick abruptly feels very old and tired.

“You know that you don’t deserve to be treated like that, right?” No reply as Steve stares intently at the floor. “Steve, I need you to tell me that you know that.”

“I do. But it’s just…” Steve trails off, and for the first time since he came home, he seems to be on the brink of tears.

Natasha moves closer to Steve, until her shoulder brushes his. 

“He was being really nice,” Natasha murmurs when Steve stays quiet. “Maybe kinda… flirting? A little?”

“But it was just a joke,” Steve adds. “He an’ his friends were waitin’ for me.”

It’s not something Nick is particularly proud of, but he kinda wants to beat the shit out of this little fucker.

Pressing his lips together, he struggles to find the right thing to say. 

_ God, being a parent is hard. _

“Let’s have some ice cream, huh? I think we got some Haagen Dazs in the freezer.”

Steve gives him a faint smile before he heads over to get them bowls and spoons. Beside him, Natasha leans against him briefly.

“Don’t worry,” she says in a low voice. “I punched a couple of ‘em in the face.”

“That’s my girl.” Wrapping his arm around her, Nick gives Nat a squeeze. She grins up at him before arguing with Steve over who gets to have the biggest bowl. 

And, for tonight at least, everything’s okay.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**_Present Day_ **

Panic grips Natasha’s lungs like a vise. She can’t breathe, and the only sound she can hear is the sound of her heart pounding in her ears. 

Kinda ironic, considering the circumstances.

The call had comes through at about two in the morning. A sick feeling had sunk into her stomach as soon as she answered her phone.

“Is this Natasha Romanoff?” a calm voice had asked.

“Y-Yes.”

“Hi, this is Nurse Fieri from New York Community Hospital. I’m calling to inform you that your brother, Steven, has been taken in for emergency surgery.”

Natasha hadn’t heard much else after that. Moving on autopilot, she’d hurriedly gotten dressed, throwing on the first things she could find and tugging on a pair of worn sneakers. 

She’s been waiting in the waiting room for almost half an hour by now. Apart from the nurse who’d shown her in, no one’s spoken to her.

Staring blankly at the TV screen situated on the wall across from where she’s sitting, Natasha thinks about praying. They’ve never really been the religious sort, even though Lerato, Nick’s mom, had done her best to chivvy both Steve and Natasha to church on Sunday mornings, with limited success. 

Now, Natasha wonders if they shouldn’t have put more effort into it.

Loud voices interrupt her train of thought, and she looks up quickly to find Nick and Phil marching down the corridor. Nick doesn’t notice her, too busy badgering the nurse, but Phil immediately rushes over to her.

“We came as soon as we heard,” he tells her, pulling her into a warm hug. 

Natasha appreciates the gesture, but she only allows it for a moment. 

Right now, she needs her dad.

Her knuckles are white from the way she’s clenching her hands.

Finally, the nurse manages to shake Nick off, and he sits beside Natasha, face creased into a harsh scowl. Still, he reaches out to take her hand in his.

“I managed to get some information outta the bi--” He inhales sharply, cutting himself. It takes a second for him to start again. “Nurse told me that Steve suffered from cardiac arrest about an hour ago. They managed to stabilise him. Banner and Strange are in there with him now.”

“Do they...” Nat looks down at her shoes; it’s a nervous habit, focusing on the details on a pair of shoes, trying to find any trace of an imperfection. Today,  there’s no comfort to be found in the familiar routine.

“Is he gonna be okay?” she asks once she’s sure her voice won’t shake.

“He fuckin’ better be,” Nick says roughly. “That kid that’s fillin’ in for him at work is drivin’ me nuts.”

A wet laugh escapes Natasha, followed almost immediately by tears.

Phil and Nick wrap their arms around her, and she clutches at their forearms, holding tight. They need to be strong, for each other and for Steve. Because Steve is  _ going to make it _ . 

Long hours pass. They don’t speak, they barely move. 

All they do is wait.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Someone’s knocking on his door. Why would someone be knocking on his door? What kind of  _ world  _ did they live in that someone would be doing this?

Dragging himself out of bed takes herculean strength. Bucky doesn’t even bother with pants.

Silently cursing the person on the other side of the door, Bucky blearily peers through the peephole.

_ Holy shit. _

_ Oh, fuck, oh, fuck, oh,  _ fuck.

“T’Challa, is that you? Open the door, son, it is freezing out here.”

The voice is familiar, one he’s heard most mornings over Skype, kind and concerned, asking his son about his fictional life in New York. And Luke’s--T’Challa’s?--dad is standing right outside the apartment, waiting to be let in.

Sweet Jesus lord, there is no way this is going to end well.

“Your mother is getting cold,” T’Chaka adds.

And that’s what decides it for him. Luke--T’Challa--is probably gonna kick his ass, but there is  _ no way _ Bucky is going to leave his  _ mom _ out there in the cold.

“Just a minute,” he calls, wincing. Then, before anyone can do anything as sensible as to demand who the hell he is, Bucky scrambles back to his bedroom to put some clothes on.

Inaudible whispers on the other side of the door as Bucky pulls on a pair of sweat; he’s shrugging on his shirt as he pulls the door open.

It’s clear from the looks on their faces that they have  _ no idea _ who he is.

“Well, this is awkward,” he mutters to himself. “Mr and Mrs Charles, it’s really great to meet you. I’m Bucky, Lu-T’Challa’s roommate.”

T’Challa’s parents exchange a bemused look.

“I remember you,” Lindiwe says suddenly. “You broke into my son’s apartment a few months ago. Do you remember,  _ umyeni _ ?” 

“Uh, yeah, about that--”

But Lindiwe’s not listening. She’s instead turned to T’Chaka, and is speaking to him in a low voice, her words filled with that clicking sound that Bucky’s become familiar with since moving in with Luke. 

He still has no idea what the hell they’re saying, though.

After a minute or two of being completely ignored, it occurs to Bucky that maybe he should let Luke/T’Challa know that his folks are here.

_ Right. _

With a plan of action in mind, Bucky has started backing away, when Lindiwe and T’Chaka turn their attention back to him. He immediately freezes.

“What is your name?” Lindiwe asks. Her voice is kind, the words slow, and the concerned look on her face is utterly bewildering. Just behind her, T’Chaka has crossed his arms over his chest. The old guy looks suspicious more than anything else.

And then Bucky gets it.

They think he’s touched in the head.

It’s sweet and ridiculous and Bucky has to fight back a laugh. 

_ God, I’m too tired for this. _

“I was gonna call Luke,” he explains weakly.

“Don’t worry, dear,” Lindiwe says gently. She takes him by the arm--the flesh one, thank fuck--and leads him over to the nearest couch. “My husband will call Luke, and we will get this all sorted out.”

Man, she’s really nice. Incredibly nice. It makes Bucky miss his own mom. 

He’s still got another couple hours ‘til his shift starts. And it’ll probably take awhile for Luke to get back from the restaurant. So maybe, if he lets Lindiwe mother him a little… well, it’s not hurting anybody. 

_ Yeah _ , Bucky decides.  _ I’m just gonna stay here an’ keep ‘em company. _

Little lies. Sometimes that’s all you need to get you through.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

There are some days where Bruce Banner hates his job. 

Really, viscerally hates it.

Today is one of those days.

Nick Fury is standing across from him, arms folded tightly over his chest, and bristling with anger. It makes it hard for Bruce to hold onto his own composure in the face of so much aggression. 

“Please, Mr Fury, I need you to calm down,” he says, trying to keep his voice even. “I understand that you’re upset--”

“Upset? You think I’m  _ upset _ ?” Fury’s voice breaks on the last word. “That’s my son. You’re tellin’ me you wanna cut him open. His heart  _ stopped beatin’ _ . I’m not upset. I am goddamn terrified. Now, you tell me what’s gonna happen, right now.”

_ He’s just being a dad. _

Clearing his throat, Bruce gestures for them to take a seat. A few chairs over, Steve’s sister is sleeping, her head resting on an older man’s shoulder. There’s worry in the man’s expression as he watches them.

“As you know,” Bruce begins, “Steve’s heart stopped last night. We managed to stabilise him, but there were a few… issues. He flatlined for a few seconds.”  Fury makes a choked noise, so Bruce hastily continues, “But we managed to get him back.”

“Wh-what about complications?” Fury asks quietly. “I mean, how is this gonna--how is it…?” 

“It’s too soon to tell,” Bruce tells him, voice gentle. “But I have high hopes; Steve’s a fighter.” 

The small, proud smile on Fury’s face at that is devastating, because Bruce knows it’s not going to last. He can’t meet Fury’s gaze now.

“What I’m not so sure of… is his heart,” Bruce says. “We’ve got him on life support, but Strange and I both agree that it’s best if we operate as soon as possible. Now, we don’t have a donor available--It’s not a crisis,” he says hastily, as panic flashes in Fury’s eyes. “Mechanical valves work just as well as tissue from a donor.” 

Fury straightens his spine. For a moment, he says nothing, just takes a few slow, deep breaths. 

“Do it.”

“Uh, Mr Fury, there are risks--”

“I don’t care.”

“--and Steve will have to be on medication for the rest of his life.”

“At least he’ll have a life to live,” Fury snaps. His voice is loud in the quiet of the waiting room, and Bruce notices that the redheaded woman is awake now.

“Alright,” Bruce concedes after a long moment. “I’ll need you to sign some paperwork, and a I’ll get a nurse in to explain some things to you. Provided everything goes smoothly, we should be good to go tomorrow, maybe the day after.”

Fury nods, lips pressed tightly together.

“Thank, doc.”

Getting to his feet with a soft sigh, Bruce hesitates before he claps a hand on Fury’s shoulder. And then, without another word, Bruce heads out of the room, head bowed down low.

_ Yeah, some days I hate my job. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I realised that I'd sort of lost track of some of my other characters? And I felt the need to sort of bring them back into the story. Sorry if it feels disjointed.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who sucks privates in a not fun way? Yup, that'd be me. I'm sorry for not updating for so long, I had a massive block, and I just hated everything about what I came up with. Honestly, at one point, I seriously considered deleting this whole thing and maybe staying in bed forever. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you guys enjoy this chapter.

“Mama, Tata. What are you doing here?”

T’Challa hopes that the apprehension in his voice is not as obvious to his parents as it is to him. 

He’d gotten a phone call a few hours into his shift, T’Chaka’s gravelly voice coming over the line. For a moment, T’Challa hadn’t been able to believe what he was hearing. 

“We are in New York,  _ umfana _ .” There’d been a brief pause before T’Chaka added, “We have met your charming roommate.”

And that was when T’Challa had realised that it was all over.

Not bothering to change out of his smock, he’d come straight home to face his father. It was time to be honest, and face the consequences, whatever they might be.

Instead of answering, Lindiwe comes up to him, her arms coming around him in a warm embrace. It feels like home. 

“This poor man is very confused,” Lindiwe whispers as she pulls away. “He keeps calling you Charles.”

From over her shoulder, T’Challa sees that James is wearing an apologetic expression; just beside him, T’Chaka does not seem so willing to believe that the white man in the apartment is crazed. His dark eyes take in T’Challa’s smock, and a slight crease appears between his brows. 

“ _ Where have you been _ , umfana?” T’Chaka asks in Xhosa.

“ _ At work _ ,” T’Challa replies. 

“ _ But not at the university. _ ”

“ _ No. _ ”

Lindiwe is watching them worriedly, her gaze darting from T’Challa to T’Chaka and back again. The worry in her expression makes his gut clench.

_ I shouldn’t have let this happen. _

“Uh, if you guys don’t mind, I’m gonna go.” James is hovering near the front door. Judging by his wince, he regrets the interruption. 

“It’s alright, James,” he replies. “I will see you later.”

“Right.” James gives a jerky nod before turning to open the door; he freezes almost immediately, though, and turns back to them. “It was very nice to meet you, ma’am,” he says to Lindiwe. “And you, sir.” 

An awkward pause as Lindiwe and T’Chaka smile at him uncertainly, and then James nods again.

“Okay. Goin’ now.”

The door shuts silently behind him, and T’Challa is left alone with his parents. It’s the most uncomfortable T’Challa can ever remember being around them.

“He seems like a nice young man,” Lindiwe says, a clear effort to break the tension. “Although, I think we should maybe give him some money for a haircut.”

That manages to drag a smile out of T’Challa, even as anxious as he is. Mama has always been good at that, at lightening the mood, even when things are bad. 

“You told us he was a burglar.” 

“I’m sorry,  _ Tata.  _ I… I should not have said that.”

“Is he your boyfriend?” Lindiwe asks gently.

If T’Challa’s head weren’t attached to his shoulders, it would have gone flying with how quickly his head jerks up. He glances between his parents; Mama’s expression is patient, whereas Tata looks as though someone had hit him over the head.

“What? No, that’s not--”

“That is why you came to New York?” T’Chaka asks. “Because you felt that you could not be yourself at home?”

The surprise had faded, and now hurt has come to take it’s place. 

“ _ Tata _ , James is  _ not  _ my boyfriend,” T’Challa says firmly. He looks over at Lindiwe as he adds, “He is just a friend who needed a place to stay. I lied to you the other day because… well, he didn’t look his best, and I was already lying about so much else--”

“So much else?” T’Chaka says, eyebrows lifting.

“--that I panicked.” 

“What else have you not told us,  _ igokra _ ?” Lindiwe asks.

_ You only have yourself to blame for this _ , T’Challa reminds himself.

With a heavy sigh, he sinks down onto the couch, and starts talking.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

For the first time in a long while, Bucky’s glad to be at work. Despite the lack of sleep, he’d had a pretty good morning; Luke’s parents were nice, especially his mom. She’d taken one look at his arm, and started clucking in concern over him.

Rather than feeling melancholy about it now, though, Bucky feels… like the whole thing was kinda cathartic. Just ‘cause things between him and his Ma are fucked, doesn’t mean it’s like that for everyone.

_ Maybe today will be a good day. _

And it is.

Until he stops by Steve’s room.

The plan had been to stop by to say hi, see how Steve was doing, maybe rib him a little. But all that flies right out of his head as soon as he gets a good look inside the room.

It’s empty.

There’s no sign of Steve anywhere. The bed is neatly made, the curtains are open wide to let in bright mid-morning sunlight. 

_ No. No, no, no. _

Panic seizes him, tightening his throat and filling his lungs. For a few heartbeats, he doesn’t move. There’s a dull roaring in his ears, and his flesh hand is trembling. 

_ Steve can’t be… He can’t…  _

Mind going blank, Bucky’s only distantly aware that his feet are moving. He's running before he knows it, shoes squeaking loudly against the tile; Bucky skids to a halt at the front desk. 

The nurse on duty--Bucky can’t remember her name right now--gives him an alarmed look.

“What are you doin’?” she demands, disapproving.

“I ne-need… Where’s… Rogers… Is he...?”

_ Jesus, fuck, I can’t breathe _ .

He must look as awful as he feels because she stops bitching at him, and instead gives him a look of concern.

“You okay, Barnes? Do you need to lie down?” she asks.

Bucky shakes his head, mentally cursing himself as the words get stuck in his throat. 

_ C’mon, c’mon, open your fuckin’ mouth. _

“There’s, uh… there’s a p-patient,” Bucky manages to stammer. “Rogers. Did he--Is he--”  _ Fuck _ . “Has he--has he been moved?

“Uh… I dunno,” the woman answers slowly. She stares at him for a beat before she reluctantly offers, “D’you want me to check?”

“ _ Please _ ,” he says. It comes out sounding a little too desperate, and he has to press his lips together to keep from blurting out anything else.

Sharp click-clacking as she searches the system for Steve. It takes too long; Bucky can feel his nerves fraying as he waits. 

“Hmmm… Oh. Oh, dear.” 

“What?” Bucky demands. “What’s wrong?”

The nurse-- _ Jesus, why can’t he remember her name? _ \--tuts sadly before looking up at him.

“Mister Rogers was moved over to intensive care. He’s scheduled for surgery at…” She squints at the computer screen. “Ten Wednesday morning.”

Bucky practically sags in relief.  _ He’s okay, he’s fine. _ But then the woman keeps talking.

“He went into cardiac arrest overnight--”

That stops Bucky cold. The panic that had briefly subsided flares up again.

_ Cardiac arrest? Jesus Christ _ .

Silent, Bucky forces himself to smile and nod in thanks before he hurries off.  He shouldn’t be doing this, he knows. Dinner’s going to be served in a few minutes, and he’ll need to be there to do his rounds. Rhodey’ll have his ass if he fucks up the schedule.

_ Don’t care. _

Heading for the stairwell, Bucky hurries down to intensive care. He nods in greeting as he passes doctors and nurses, some familiar, most of them not. There’s a frantic hammering of his pulse; he  _ needs  _ to find Steve.

Bucky’s just about to go over to the front desk to ask--wracking his brains for an excuse for why he wants to know--when a familiar voice calls his name.

“Hey, Barnes.”

It’s Natasha, and she looks… terrible. 

Well, as close to terrible as it’s possible for her to look.

She’s sitting on the floor, a styrofoam cup between the palms of her hands. The wan smile she offers is enough for Bucky to move forward. Stopping a few feet away from her, Bucky gets down on his haunches so that he’s at her eye level.

“Is he okay?” he asks quietly. “I-I-I only just heard, they said he--”  _ Deep breath, stop babbling.  _ “How is he?”

For a long moment, Natasha just stares at him. Her gaze drops back down to her hands.

“Been better,” Natasha admits. She takes a quick sip of her drink, and then winces. Hospital coffee is never a good thing.

Silence stretches out between them. Bucky wants to ask more questions, but why the hell should Natasha answer them? She doesn’t know him; hell, he barely even knows Steve.

It’s just that Bucky needs Steve to be okay.

“What’s going on between you two?” Natasha asks, seemingly out of nowhere. 

Bucky’s head jerks up in surprise. It's a fair question, especially considering that he’s  _ here _ , waiting for news on a patient who’s all but a stranger to him. Of course she thinks it's weird. 

Licking his lips nervously, Bucky tries to figure out what to say. Natasha doesn't give him a chance. 

“Look, I'm glad you're being so nice to him, ‘specially in this place where he's bored outta his skull--”

_ Wasn't that nice to him the first time we met.  _

“--but he’s really vulnerable right now--”

“I’m not takin’ advantage of him,” Bucky cuts in, offended now.

“Didn’t say you were,” Natasha says calmly. “I just think there’s a chance he might latch onto you because he’s afraid.”

“Steve isn’t afraid of anything.”

The words come out before he can think them through, betraying a familiarity he probably shouldn’t have with a patient. Luckily, Natasha doesn’t notice. Either that, or she’s kind enough not to say anything.

For a few minutes, Bucky doesn’t say anything, just stays in his position on the floor beside Natasha. Belatedly, he realises that he needs to get back to work.

_ Shit. _

Getting hastily to his feet, Bucky winces as his arm bangs loudly against the wall. 

_ Clumsy jackass _ . 

A person would think that he’d be completely used to his damn arm by now, but clearly not. Balance is still an issue, with one arm heavier than the other. Embarrassed, he doesn’t look over at Natasha.

“Gotta get back to work,” he mutters, already turning away.

“Okay. But, hey, Barnes?” 

Bucky looks back over at Natasha. She’s not really looking at him, doesn’t even seem to concerned over whether she has his attention or not. 

“Come back later, if you wanna check on him.”

He hadn’t been expecting the offer. It breaks through the barely restrained panic and eases it slightly.

“Uh, yeah. Thanks. I will.”

And then, with one last look over at Natasha, Bucky hurries back for the stairs to get to work.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“This is stupid.”

“It’s also non-negotiable.”

“I’m fine. We don't have time for this.”

"You can't be around Steven if you're sick. He'll be recovering, and his immune system'll be down."

"Sick," Nick scoffs. "I ain't sick."

Beside him, Phil heaves an enormous sigh but doesn't argue. They’re sitting in an unfamiliar waiting room belonging to the GP working on the floor beneath Dr Banner’s office. The decor is more welcoming than most waiting rooms Nick’s been in, with walls painted a warm golden colour, and the couches are soft and comfortable. 

Which probably explains why all the other patients seem so damn comfortable.

_ A body’d think they were here for a goddamn tea party _ , Nick thinks sourly as he stifles a cough.

The same damn cough he hasn’t been able to shake. The same damn cough that’d worried Phil so bad, he’d bullied Nick into seeing a doctor.

“Oh, dear,” says the old lady sitting across from him. “That sounds quite painful.” She’s got this kind of regal look about her, her hair neatly set, and a simple row of pearls around her throat. Sitting to her left is a young black man, who appears to be immersed in an article in Homemaker magazine.  

“It ain’t so bad,” Nick replies, forcing a smile. The words are barely out his mouth when Phil lets out a loud snort.

“Don’t believe him. I practically had to threaten him with divorce to get him here.”

Nick glares at him, even while hoping that the comment will get the woman to clam up. Old white folks don’t normally take to interracial gay couples. 

But this lady doesn’t even blink.

“My husband was the same,” she tells Phil, giving him a knowing look. “His leg could be falling off, and he’d insist it was just a scratch.” The old lady turns to the man beside her, patting his leg in a grandmotherly fashion. “You would’ve like him, Sam.”

“Not if he was a stubborn ass ‘bout comin’ to the doctor,” Sam replies. Looking up from the magazine, he aims a toothy grin at Phil and Nick; he carefully folds a page of his magazine to mark his place before extending a hand. “Sam Wilson,” he introduces himself. “And this lovely lady is Mrs Martha Shields.”

This is a little chummier than Nick had planned on getting in the doctor’s waiting room. He frowns slightly, trying to come up with a way to bring this little tete a tete to a halt, but Phil isn’t having it.

“Phil,” he says, smiling at them wanly. “And this is Nick.” 

Conversation should stall at this point, because just what the hell do they have in common. But because the world has stopped making sense, Phil, Mrs Shields and Sam get on like a goddamn house on fire. It's probably because Phil's always had this freakish knack for drawing in strangers. 

His cell phone buzzes a minute or two later, and Nick breathes a sigh of relief. Quickly, he pulls it out to check his texts. It’s Natasha.

**Where are you?**

Ignoring the chatter going on around him, Nick sends back.

**Doc’s office. Phil insisted. Don't have time for this shit.**

Barely a minute passes before he gets another message. 

**Good. About time.**

He’s scowling down at the screen when a sharp elbow nudges into his side. Nick gives a muffled yelp before turning to glare at Phil; it doesn’t help that it looks like his husband is trying not to sigh. 

“Huh?”

That earns him an exasperated look, and Nick feels a faint bite of guilt. He has to muffle another cough as he glances away uncomfortably.

“Sam and Martha were just telling me about their arrangement,” Phil says patiently. 

_ Oh, we’re on a first name basis now _ , Nick muses. He’s not entirely surprised, though. There’s something about Phil that makes people want to talk to him, and he’s always interested in what they’ve got to say.

So of course, he’s managed to wrest the no doubt torrid tale of a whirlwind romance between this old lady and her toyboy.  

Which is why Nick’s surprised to hear that…

“I’m a live-in nurse,” Sam tells him. “Mrs Shields hired me about… two years ago?” He looks over at Mrs Shields questioningly. 

“Round about,” she agrees. “I have osteoporosis, and it makes me prone to landing on my ass.”

Nick snorts a laugh before he can stop himself, and a loud, hacking cough escapes him. Almost as though on cue, the receptionist looks over her desk.

“Excuse me, Mr Fury? The doctor will see you now.”

He lifts a hand in acknowledgement while his mind processes what Sam had told him. A live-in nurse sounds pretty damn great. 

Maybe even perfect.

“How’s this whole thing work?” Nick asks. “The whole live in thing? Is there anyone I can contact--? Like an agency or somethin’?”

Surprisingly, Sam brightens up at the question. He’s immediately reaching in his pocket for his phone.

“Actually, I know a guy,” he replies. “His last patient passed away a couple weeks ago, so he’s been workin’ at the hospital. But I’m pretty sure he’d be more’n happy to hear from you.”

Okay, hearing that this person’s last patient had died isn’t encouraging, but it’s a good starting point. 

“Mr Fury?” the receptionist calls again.

“Go,” Phil says, nudging him gently. “I’ll get the details.”

Murmuring his thanks, Nick spares a moment to shake both Mrs Shields and Sam’s hands. The gratitude he feels is immense. Maybe, once Steve’s recuperated enough from the surgery, he can come home instead of spending more time in the hospital. The idea of Steve out of that godforsaken room lessens the weight that had settled on his shoulders for the last few weeks. 

Soon, things’ll be better. Steve will be home and he’ll get better. Natasha will smile and mean it. Phil will stop worrying and finally get some sleep.

_ An’ I’ll have my family back together. _

It’s a comforting thought--the only comfort, really, since this whole mess began--so Nick holds it tight to his chest.

Everything was going to be alright.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“A chef,” T’Chaka grumbles. “The heir to Wakanda would rather be a kitchen boy than king.” 

T’Challa hears Lindiwe make a shushing sound from the living room. It’s a small apartment, so it’s not surprising that his parents’ hushed conversation reaches his ears. There’s rancour in T’Chaka’s voice, just an honest confusion.

Not even Lindiwe, as supportive as she is, was able to conceal her own surprise at T’Challa’s choice of careers. 

He ducks his head in embarrassment.

_ You could have avoided all this if you had just been honest. _

Keeping his eyes fixed on where he’s deboning the chicken, T’Challa spares a moment to be grateful Lindiwe had come along on T’Chaka’s visit to New York. It had been her idea that T’Challa cook for them, to give them at least some understanding of why he had chosen the oftentimes thankless life as a chef over his responsibilities as a prince.

So, in an effort to both apologise and impress, T’Challa had decided to prepare a traditional paella. 

It isn’t long before the smell of garlic and herbs fills the apartment. Soothed by the familiar routine of being in the kitchen, T’Challa forgets to worry about his father’s disapproval. Lost in his own world, pausing to taste and add ingredients where necessary, he doesn’t notice that Lindiwe has moved to join him a few steps away from the stove.

“I have never seen you like this.” Lindiwe’s voice startles him, and he looks up sharply; she’s watching him with a sad smile. “Did you have to come so far from home to be happy?”

“Oh, Mama, no.”

Abandoning the paella, T’Challa quickly reaches out to give his mother a hug. The familiar scent of home lingers on her clothes and hair, and it makes him tighten his grip on her. 

He’s missed this. 

“New York has a special place in my heart, Mama,” T’Challa says, pulling away slightly. “But Wakanda is my home. I won’t stay here forever.”

“Maybe you should,” Lindiwe replies softly.

The words hit him like a slap, and T’Challa blinks down at Lindiwe in hurt confusion. 

“I didn’t mean it like that.” Lindiwe reaches up to gently touch his cheek. “It is only that, if you’re happier here--”

“There is nowhere I’m happier than I am when I’m at home,” T’Challa says firmly. He’s about to say something else when T’Chaka’s voice interrupts him.

“Do I smell something burning?”

Head whipping around, T’Challa stares in horror at the smoke emitting from the pot. One of James’ favourite curses springs from his lips before he can stop it.

“Goddamn it!”

T’Challa rushes forward to try to salvage dinner, but it’s no use; an acrid taste clings to the food. Wilting in disappointment, he finds it difficult to meet his parents’ eyes. 

All those months lying to his parents, and now that he has to opportunity to actually  _ show _ them what he’s been doing, he ruins it.

“Did I ever tell you of the first meal Dalumzi ever served us?” T’Chaka asks, referring to the royal family’s personal chef. He doesn’t wait for T’Challa to answer as he continues, “He gave us raw eggs. And a few days later, he caused a fire in the kitchens when he tried to stick a croissant into the toaster.”

The idea of the always unruffled Dalumzi making those kinds of mistakes is inconceivable, but T’Challa knows what his father is doing.

“Thank you,  _ Tata _ .”

“You’re a good boy, T’Challa. If this is what you want to do, well…” T’Chaka sighs, rubs a hand tiredly over his face. “Then your mother and I will support you.”

Words fail T’Challa at that, as gratitude and affection swamp him. Clearing his throat, he offers his parents a grin. 

“Why don’t I treat you to the best New York has to offer in terms of takeaways?” he suggests.

"Alright," Lindiwe agrees. "But I expect to try some of your food sometime soon."

"Preferably not burned," T'Chaka adds dryly.

"Of course, Tata. I promise.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why am I like this? Why is this taking so friggin' long? Seriously, people who are miraculously still interested in this fic, I'm so sorry. I will try and get the next chapter out soon(er) than I've been doing the last few weeks.

_ Shoulda gone into medicine.  _

Not that that would've lessened this helpless sinking feeling in Natasha’s chest. Pacing back and forth in the waiting room, Nat wishes she had somethings to do with her hands besides biting her nails. It's a habit she's long since kicked, but in the face of the stress of  _ not knowing _ , it's made its comeback. 

“Anyone for some more coffee?” Phil asks quietly. 

“Dunno if that's a good idea,” Nick murmurs. “Otherwise we're gonna have to pay to recarpet the hospital floor.”

The wry observation brings a faint smile to Natasha’s face; it doesn't last long, though. 

_ God, what’s taking so long? _

In all fairness, it's only been two hours, but it feels like a lifetime. Every time a nurse wanders by, she feels herself perking up, expecting news. Only for whoever it was to just meander by, unconcerned with the fate of the scrawny young man in the operating room. 

At least, that’s the case with most of the nurses who pass.

But towards the end of the third hour of surgery, Bucky Barnes stumbles into the waiting room. He’s wearing a pair of jeans with a hole in the left knee, a threadbare sweater and worn sneakers.

The guy’s a complete mess. But the concern for Steve is genuine, and it softens her towards him.

“Hey. You made it,” she says, managing a small smile. 

Barnes doesn’t return the greeting. Instead, looking more frantic than a relative stranger probably should, he glances around the waiting room. The slightly wild look on his face makes Nat wonder how the hell the hospital could’ve let him take care of patients like this.

Apparently, Nick’s thinking the same thing.

“What the hell’s he doin’ here?”

He sounds too tired to be angry, but there’s a note of suspicion in his voice. And he’s right. Barnes and Steve barely know each other, he shouldn’t be this invested in the outcome of Steve’s surgery.

But Natasha can’t bring herself to tell the guy to get lost. He cares. So many people have overlooked Steve his whole life, but Barnes actually seems to  _ get it _ , at least to an extent _. _

So, until Barnes fucks up, she’s got his back.

“There any news?” he asks, not paying any attention to Nick.

“Not yet.” Nat moves up on the couch, pats the seat beside her. “You can wait with us, if you want.”

Barnes nods slowly, allowing the pack he'd been carrying to slip off his shoulder before he moves to sit beside her. He doesn't look at anyone, just stares straight ahead. 

There's a slightly awkward pause. Nick watches them for a moment before dismissing the strangeness of the situation; Phil, on the other hand, stares at them with open curiosity. 

Still, he doesn't ask questions. Before long, they're all staring into space, lost in their own thoughts. The motion of Barnes’ leg jigging up and down keeps catching Nat’s attention from out of the corner of her eye. 

It's annoying. 

But before she can tell him to cut it out, Dr Strange makes an appearance. He's pulling off that weird hairnet thing doctor's wear, and his handsome face is lined with tiredness. They all get immediately to their feet, Nick, Phil and Natasha rushing to him, already peppering him with questions. 

“How'd it go--?”

“--any complications--?”

“--soon we can see him?”

Strange holds up his hands to halt their words. His expression is utterly calm, and Natasha just wants to shake him. 

_ Just fuckin’ tell us already. _

“The procedure was a success,” Strange announces. “Dr Banner is overseeing the last of things, but…” He smiles now, and it transforms his face. “I expect your son to make a full recovery.”

No one says anything for a long moment. The relief is palpable, and Natasha feels herself trying to swallow passed the lump in her throat.

_ He’s gonna be okay. You can stop imagining what it’d be like without him. _

Beside her, Nick staggers. His face is ashen, and a single tear is trickling down his face. Phil hurriedly reaches out to hold him steady before his legs can give out. 

“Thank Christ,” Nick murmurs, apparently not noticing his temporary weakness. He looks up at Dr Strange before shaking Phil off; he takes Strange’s hands in a desperate hold. “Thank you, Doctor. I can't--You don't--” A shuddery breath escapes him, and words fail him for another moment. “Thank you. We’re more grateful than I can tell you.”

A last parting smile, and then Dr Strange is gone, leaving them to wait for Dr Banner to come out. It's then that Natasha notices that Barnes is gone. He'd slipped quietly away, staying only long enough to hear that Steve was okay. 

_ Weird.  _

But Nat can't dwell on it because Nick is scooping her up in his arms and swinging her around like he thinks she's still eight years old. Laughing, Natasha returns the embrace, squeezing him back tightly. 

In the excitement and giddy relief, nobody spares a second to wonder where Barnes had gone. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**_Seven Years Ago_ **

_ Where's Stark? _

_ He was supposed to be here.  _

_ Am I dying? _

Soft laughter, ugly, oily. Even in the midst of the pain, Bucky can feel a hand touching his shoulder, deceptively gentle. Somehow, that touch is worse than the agony. It's when that hated voice final speaks that Bucky realises that he'd been talking out loud. 

“I will not allow you to die, James. You will be HYDRA’s greatest achievement. We are so close to achieving our goal.”

Bucky had come to realise, in the fleeting moments where pain didn't rule his every thought, that HYDRA was not what it had appeared to be. Rather than developing new medical technology, the organisation was involved in illegal human experimentation. He'd only caught snippets of their conversations, but it seemed that HYDRA didn’t give a rat’s ass about helping people.

They just cared about power.

Floating in and out of consciousness, Bucky’s mind drifts. He thinks about his Ma, Becka. They hadn’t spoken for a while before this. Maybe they’ll be worried about him.

Maybe they won’t have noticed his silence after so long.

The smell of chemicals is the worst part. Bucky can close his eyes, pretend he’s somewhere else so long as he can’t  _ see _ his surroundings.

But there’s nothing he can do to block out the smell.

Time passes unevenly in this place. The nights are quiet, the darkness both comforting and smothering, all at once. Sometimes, Bucky will hear the sound of movement; occasionally, another ‘patient’ will scream. 

It's better than the light hours, though. When the sun comes up, HYDRA’s monsters come out, with their clinical gazes and their impersonal hands. 

That's when the pain starts. 

He doesn’t know how long he’s stuck in this place. It could be a few days, it could be weeks. They’d mutilated what was left of his arm, removing the stump and replacing it with an ugly hunk of metal. 

Finally, after an interminable stretch of simply staring at the ceiling, something changes. Shouting rings through the room, loud, angry. Bucky thinks he can hear Zola’s voice. He sounds agitated.

“What are you doing in here? You do not have clearance--”

A loud bang, more shouting. One of the voices sounds familiar.

“--using my technology, you sick fuck! How long has this been goin' on?”

“Get him out of here!” Zola screeches. “He is disturbing my patients!”

It’s stupid, really, how that word can rile Bucky, even as he’s strapped down in his bed. After everything Zola had done to him, the man referring to the people trapped down here as  _ patients _ is hardly anything worth noticing. But it makes Bucky want to scream, to tear this place apart, to break Zola’s hands.

_ First, do no harm. _

Bucky doesn't know much about a doctor’s responsibilities beyond what he's seen on tv, and what he'd experienced after his accident. But he knows this much: doctors aren't supposed to enjoy hurting you worse. 

The next few minutes--hours?--pass in a flurry of activity. Zola is tense, snarling at his underlings in a low voice as they scurry to and fro. Something has changed, the familiar voice has rattled Zola in a way Bucky hasn't seen before. 

_ If Zola’s afraid, maybe I should be too.  _

No sooner has the thought gone through his head, then he hears the sound of hurried footsteps. Some instinct has Bucky’s heart thumping against his rib cage as fear crawls over his skin.

“Arnim, the police are on their way.” The voice belongs to a woman. Bucky thinks it sounds like the receptionist he’d met so long ago.

“What?” Zola squawks. 

“We received a call from one of my contacts at the NYPD. Tony Stark has managed to convince them that something is amiss here at HYDRA. Take what you can, and let us go.”

“But what about my patients?” Zola demands. From the angle Bucky’s lying at, he sees Zola take a step closer, macabrely protective. Bucky summons all the strength he can to edge away from him. 

“There is no time,” the voice hisses impatiently. “We cannot linger here.”

A moment of silence before Zola lets out a soft curse; he hurries away from where Bucky lies, shoving papers into a tattered briefcase. It takes a long moment for understanding to dawn, and when it does, Bucky feels tears sting the back of his eyelids. 

_ Help’s coming. It’s over. _

Almost as soon as the thought flashes through his mind, the voice speaks again.

“Wait outside while I deal with--”

“No,” Zola snaps immediately. “These patients are examples of my greatest work. Kill them and it will all be for nought!”

“They are witnesses.”

“They are the product of years of research.”

Bucky waits with his heart pounding hard in his chest. In the darkest hours of his captivity, he’d prayed for death. Now, with freedom so  _ close _ , the idea of dying now is unbearable.

“Fine,” the woman snaps. “But we must leave. Now.”

Muttering angrily under his breath, Zola takes a moment to gather the last of his things before heading to the door. And then he hesitates.

“I hope we see each other again, Mr Barnes.” 

And then Zola’s gone, the woman following close behind him. Bucky’s alone with the other patients. There aren’t many of them, maybe a dozen or so. A few are crying, others are tugging at their restraints. Belatedly, it occurs to Bucky to do the same.

Teeth gritted, Bucky looks over at the metal soldered onto his flesh. Revulsion crawls up his throat like bile.

_ Don’t think about it. Just move. _

He knows that the arm works; Zola’s tested it before. But it’s the first time that Bucky’s consciously decided to use it. Tugging at the cuff around the metal wrist, Bucky is surprised when the metal gives way with a screech. 

_ Jesus Christ. _

It’s terrifying, the strength in the prosthesis. Inhumanly strong, resistant to pretty much any of the abuse Zola had put to it during his testing, it’s all too easy to imagine the purpose Zola had had in mind when he’d designed the damn thing. 

Bucky can hear sirens blaring in the distance. The police, they were going to want to know what had happened here. They were going to want to know what had been done to him, doctors would want to look at the arm.

_ No.  _

Panic spurring him on now, Bucky uses the metal arm to free his other hand. As he gets to his feet, he feels his head swim, legs trembling beneath him. Bucky looks up to see that the others are struggling to loosen their own restraints.

_ You should help ‘em. _

The sirens are getting closer.

_ I can’t stay here. _

Not allowing himself to look back over at the others, he takes a few slow, shaky steps forwards. When his legs don’t give out on him--which is just… such a huge fucking relief--Bucky lengthens his strides. All he needs to do now is walk and keep walking. He’ll just leave it all behind, pretend it never happened.

_ Get this fuckin’ arm off with a crowbar if I gotta. _

_ Or I could ask Tony-- _

_ No.  _

Bucky cuts the thought off angrily. He can’t ask Tony shit. Tony had fucking left him there to be fucking  _ tortured _ . So had Papa. No one had even tried to find him.

_ Thought they were my friends. _

He takes the emergency stairs down to the lobby of the HYDRA building. It’s there that he hesitates, looking around at the dimly lit furniture, the chrome somehow still managing to gleam. Place is creepy as fuck. Bucky wonders how the hell he hadn’t noticed that before.

_ Too fuckin’ desperate. _

Won’t happen again.

Never again.

Squaring his shoulders, Bucky stops in front of a solid looking side door. It’s probably locked, with HYDRA too cautious to let just anyone stumble into the building. 

_ But whatever, right? ‘Parently, I’m a fuckin’ cyborg now. _

Still, he’s surprised when the door handle comes off in the metal hand, crumpled and flimsy as paper. Despite the situation and the horror that had accompanied the arm, Bucky can’t help but smile slightly.

He had to admit, that was pretty cool.

_ Maybe this won't be so bad.  _

This time it's easy to leave without looking back. The cops’ll help the others out, maybe even catch Zola and put him in a prison cell where he fucking belongs. And Bucky… Well, maybe Bucky can work at getting his life together. Sure, he won't have Papa or his parents to help him out, but Bucky knows he'll make it.

Not like it's anything new anyway.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**_Present Day_ **

“I need pain meds. Strong.”

Peggy hesitates, staring across at her patient in trepidation. It’s been awhile since James had been to see her, although he had been better about keeping in contact. She’d gotten the occasional text from him, letting her know that everything was okay on his end.

_ If I weren’t so bloody worried about him, I’d kick his arse. _

“What is the medication for, James?”

He glares at her, mouth twisting in irritation. There are dark bags under his eyes. Peggy wonders when last he got a good night’s rest.

“Why do people ask for pain meds, Doc? Could it be that--and this is just a wild guess--they’re actually hurtin’?”

“Have you tried tylenol--”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” James bursts out. Running both hands through his overlong hair in frustration, James gets to his feet. He paces the small room before turning to her with a pleading expression. “I need something. Please.”

_ God, this is wretched, _ Peggy thinks to herself. And under different circumstances, she wouldn’t have hesitated, would’ve written him a prescription in a heartbeat. 

But…

“James, I want to help, I do. I just… I’m concerned… with your history...” 

“You think I’m gonna start poppin’ pills again.” James shakes his head, and it’s impossible to miss the hurt in his tone. “Un-fuckin’-believable.”

“I’m your doctor, James. More importantly, I’m your friend. It's my responsibility to make sure--”

“That I don't relapse?” James interrupts. “You really think, that after everything Papa did for me, I'd become some kinda junkie?” His voice is soft now when he speaks, and it makes Peggy feel like the worst sort of friend. “Thought you knew me better’n that, Peg.”

And it was true. She'd met James in her first year practicing in New York, and he'd been… a mess. Post traumatic stress coupled with the physical pain of having a large, heavy piece of metal attached to his shoulder. In an effort to numb that, at the very least, James had been bouncing around from doctor to doctor in search of prescription medication. It had been heartbreaking to see. He'd worked incredibly hard to nip the budding addiction, doing a commendable job staying clean. And she's afraid that with the strain James has been under recently, history might repeat itself. 

“Fine,” she concedes after a moment. “I’ll write you a prescription. But no refills, do you hear me? If you need another one, I want you to come see me first. Alright?”

For a breathless moment, Peggy thinks he’s going to tell her to sod off, to storm out and go to someone else. Finally, he sighs.

“That’s fine. Thanks.”

It isn’t long after that that Bucky’s leaving her office, shoulders hunched up around his ears. His dejected posture worries her, but she refrains from calling after him. James is a grown man. He knows that Peggy’s here, and if he needs help, he’ll come to her.

_ At least, I hope so. _

**Author's Note:**

> I'm over at dorkystan.tumblr.com if you want to chat about these idiot boys together.


End file.
